


Monster

by Phoenyx634



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Badass OFC, Bullying, Cuddling with the Dark Lord, Diagon Alley, Duelling, Dumbledore Bashing, EVILSEXINESS, Evil Riddle, F/M, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Hogwarts, Knockturn Alley, Lots of plot, Muggle London, Mystery, NO dub-con, New Locations, No push-overs (except for Rosier), Not a Crossover, Not a Mary-Sue, Ollivanders, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sexual Tension, Swearing, Tom's fine as he is, Torture, Violence, Wool's Orphanage, You can't fix Riddle, but also fun times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenyx634/pseuds/Phoenyx634
Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle is preparing to go into his fifth year at Hogwarts, when Dumbledore turns up unexpectedly at the orphanage, needing his help with a new student. What if Tom met his match? What if someone upset the balance of power before he became the Dark Lord... and changed the trajectory of history?





	1. The Reluctant Student

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Phoenyx634 here! I first posted this on Fanfiction.net. I'm starting the long process of editing and exporting the chapters I've finished so far to other sites, so this might not be as up to date. For the most recent chapters and some other works by me, go check me out on Ffnet under the same username :)
> 
> Some quick notes on the story/setting:
> 
> I decided to write this because I was getting annoyed with all the fanfics that gave Tom a meek love interest. And he is an evil bastard, so that inevitably ended up turning into dubious consent, which I find icky. So here we are! No dub-con, no Mary-Sues... and Tom Riddle as he was intended :)
> 
> Tom is going into his fifth year (1942); therefore, he hasn't opened the Chamber of Secrets yet (in the books it's in his sixth year).  
> He also hasn't killed Riddle Snr and his grandparents (which is supposed to happen in his seventh year).  
> He has his little group of followers at Hogwarts, but they follow him by choice… he has yet to morph into the "Dark Lord". So for now at least, he's just a powerful, handsome, cruel little shit.  
> He's supposed to be 15 in fifth year… but I always imagine him older. So I apologise if he doesn't act/sound very teenager-ish. Then again, I doubt he would be a normal 15 year old boy anyway.

The tall, dark-haired teenage boy paced distractedly up and down in his small room, a dark scowl twisting his (otherwise extremely handsome) features. The old floorboards of the muggle orphanage he lived in during the school holidays creaked under his restless feet.

His name was Tom Riddle, and he was a wizard.

A threadbare metal-framed bed, a narrow wardrobe, a battered-looking travelling trunk and a rickety table and chair cluttered the small room, making it rather pointless to pace. A couple of spellbooks were stacked neatly on the table. The door was locked. Every since Mrs Cole had fallen ill with pneumonia three years previous, things at the orphanage had quickly gone from almost bearable to completely intolerable. Now the management of the orphan boys was under the cruel hand of Mistress Miranda, a sadistic woman who drank too much, and even worse, the man who occasionally warmed her bed, Harold. If the orphanage had been in a small town, not London, Harold would have been the town drunk. He had no business being around children, but assisted Mistress Miranda in matters relating to "discipline". Beatings were frequent, and he seemed to have formed a particular dislike of Tom, who didn't seem to exhibit any fear like the other boys. At night the doors were locked, making the orphanage seem more like a prison.

But during the last week Tom had kept a low profile, avoiding conflict and remaining out of everyone's way. The reason for this behaviour was because a new term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was just about to begin, and he didn't want to go back looking like he had just endured hell. Which he had.

He reminded himself again that as soon as he graduated Hogwarts he would return and burn the building down. With its occupants inside to feel the flames. Until then, however, he had to maintain appearances.

He scowled again as he thought of the school. It was two days before the end of the holidays, and he was supposed to have received word from them  _days_  ago. He was waiting for the letter informing him of his new book lists for fifth year and his train ticket, as well as the pitiful allowance Hogwarts gave him so that he could head to Diagon Alley. It irked him that he relied so heavily on it, but he couldn't leave without money and the lists. Why hadn't it arrived? It was very suspicious. If he was any other student, he might have suspected foul play, but that was laughable. Only Slytherins were inclined to pull off those kinds of pranks, and they were too scared of him to consider something like that.

For four years each summer holiday the owl with his letter and allowance arrived on time to the hour… why not now?  _No, not for four years_ , he suddenly remembered. The first time Albus Dumbledore had appeared to deliver his letter  _in person_. His temper darkened even further as he remembered that encounter. That blasted old fool had looked down on him ever since…

He stiffened suddenly. But no, surely that wasn't the rea-

Darkness fell in the room as the street lamp outside went out with a flicker, as if the gas lamp's luminescence had been sucked away.

Tom strode to the window and froze as anger and dread in equal measure burned through him. The familiar, hated figure of a tall wizard with an greying auburn beard in bright purple robes strode down the street towards the orphanage.

At the front door downstairs the wizard looked up and Tom saw moonlight glinting off of half-moon spectacles. He shrank back from the window and schooled his face into an expressionless mask, feeling like the old man had seen him even through the dark and dirty windowpane.

He heard a polite knock on the front door, and then a short silence, followed by the sound of the door opening, an unintelligible conversation, and closing again as Dumbledore was admitted.

Tom's mind raced as he considered the possibilities. He suddenly grew convinced that he was about to be expelled. Dumbledore had finally found a reason to kick him out, and had come to snap his wand. His legs felt strangely weak so he sat down hurriedly on his thin mattress. Did they find out about his… little experiments on the other students? He hadn't damaged anyone beyond repair though… Had one of his "friends" betrayed him? He had done any number of small transgressions…What did they do to expelled students?

He was so distracted by these disturbing thoughts that he barely registered that a key was jangling in his door. He had just enough time to sit up straight and try to look aloof before the door swung open and admitted the purple-robed wizard.

"Good evening, Tom." Said the old man in his kindly voice, though Tom noticed his warmth didn't reach his eyes.

Tom inclined his head, every inch the model student, "Professor." He said deferentially.

From the doorway came another voice. "Tom, my dear," simpered Mistress Miranda in a tone completely different to her usual nasal whine, "Your teacher tells me he has come to take you back to school early this year. Isn't that so nice of him?"

 _I'm not going to be expelled?!_  "Is that so, Professor?" Tom asked blandly.

A slight knowing twinkle entered Dumbledore's blue eyes for a moment, as if he could hear how Tom's heart was racing as he waited for confirmation that his world wasn't about to end.

 _Enjoy it while it lasts, old man_ , Tom snarled in his mind,  _I know what you really think of me_. Yes, they were all liars in this room. Tom was  _not_  the polite student, Dumbledore was  _not_  the kindly teacher, and Miranda was a hag with a drinking problem, pretending to be a diligent carer. They all wore masks.

The twinkle vanished, and Dumbledore gave a small sigh, as if he'd heard Tom's internal monologue. When he spoke, he was more businesslike. "Yes. There is a small matter I need your help with before the school term starts, so I thought I would deliver your letters and money in person. I'll explain more on the way."

Tom nodded, as if this was completely expected, and stood up languidly from the bed. "I'll just collect my things, then, sir." He strolled over to his wardrobe and pulled out some of his clothes, placing them into his trunk. He did the same with his spellbooks, moving without haste though his fingers trembled with suppressed excitement. He was leaving two days early! He didn't even care that it was with Dumbledore, or what the old fool had planned. He would shortly be back in the magical world, where he belonged.

Dumbledore watched him impassively, while Miranda offered him tea, which he politely declined. She didn't seem to mind that he'd come bursting in like this late at night, but then, maybe she was just happy to be rid of Tom sooner than usual.

 _The feeling is mutual_ … "Will I be needing my wand, sir?" Tom asked indifferently.

"Probably not, but perhaps it would be best if you kept it with you anyway." Came the surprising reply.

Tom hesitated, taken aback, but only for a moment. Now his curiosity flared up at the possibilities. What could the professor need from him that  _might_  require underage magic? He pocketed his long, pale wand, savouring the familiar feeling of it at his side.

Dumbledore waved his wand and the trunk disappeared into thin air. Miranda didn't seem to notice, but from the slightly vacant expression on her face Tom could tell Dumbledore had cast a minor Befuddlement Charm on her.

"Come, let us be off." Said Dumbledore, and Tom followed him out of the orphanage.

Once out onto the street, Dumbledore walked quickly with long strides, making Tom trot to keep up.

"Tom, how are they treating you at the orphanage?" he asked suddenly as they walked.

Tom didn't let his mask slip at all as he replied tightly, "I can't complain."  _I won't complain._

Dumbledore didn't seem convinced. With a note of impatience, he said, "If you say you are unhappy there, I can make other arrangements-"

"Can I stay at Hogwarts during the holidays?" asked Tom bluntly.

"No."

"Then I have nothing to say, sir." He had a perverse sense of satisfaction as an uncomfortable look flickered across the old man's face. He  _knew_  they were treating him badly there. But Tom would rather endure it a thousand times over than admit he needed  _Dumbledore's_  help.

Dumbledore was silent as they continued, and Tom felt somewhat smug. "So, where are we going, Professor?" he asked innocently, after the silence became awkward.

"Knockturn Alley." Came the curt response. Tom's eyebrows rose.

Dumbledore saw his surprised expression. "I need your help retrieving a… valuable item." He said cryptically, seeming to enjoy Tom's confusion. "It's a new student." He explained, after a moment.

Dumbledore abruptly stopped and glanced up and down the darkened street. "This is a quiet enough spot." He offered his arm and looked at Tom expectantly.

Tom very nearly grimaced as he realized he would need to actually  _touch_  the man, but held back his disgust. He touched his arm and was immediately pulled into the crushing darkness of Side-Along Apparition.

Fifteen minutes later, and Tom found himself in the unlikely position of sitting on a conjured bench next to the professor he most despised in a grimy alleyway, watching the entrance of a ramshackle building opposite them.

"This student lives here?" asked Tom, disgusted, as his eyes followed shady-looking passers-by. Only Knockturn could still be busy at this time of night. The folk who dwelt here were more like cockroaches.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, "She really isn't an ordinary witch." He chuckled.

Tom looked at the old man and waited impatiently for an explanation. This had turned into a very strange night indeed. Dumbledore pondered for a long moment, during which Tom had to restrain himself from throttling the truth out of him.

"Two months ago," he started at last, "A shipment of invaluable Time-Turners was ambushed by thugs, who made off with a number of them. A ministry inquiry was launched and the search began to track down the missing items, which, as you can imagine, could be  _devastating_  in the wrong hands."

Tom wondered briefly what he would do with a Time Turner…

"Anyway," continued Dumbledore quickly. Perhaps he had seen the covetous gleam in Tom's eye and was afraid of giving him ideas. "All of them were tracked down without fuss within hours, except one. It somehow ended up here, in Knockturn Alley, in a shop on sale to the highest bidder. But when the ministry official arrived to retrieve it, it was discovered that it had been stolen again, this time from the shop, by a bold and resourceful young girl."

"And she lives here?" Tom gestured at the building opposite.

"That's right."

"If you already know where she is, then why do you need-"

"Patience, Tom, patience. I haven't finished the tale yet." Dumbledore said mildly.

Tom compressed his lips and tried to rein in his temper.

"The ministry official chased the girl in circles for the next few weeks, but each time he got close she managed to slip away. He did however manage to find out her identity, which came as a bit of a surprise. Her name is Amalia Gray. I assume you've heard of the Grays?"

Tom nodded, surprised. They were an old Pureblood family known for their wealth and power, but like many Pureblood lines, theirs had disappeared some years ago.

"After the marriage of what I can only assume are her parents, all records of her family seem to have vanished. There are no other Grays left. We wouldn't even know of her existence at all if she hadn't drawn the attention of the Ministry in this matter. As far as I can tell, she's been living as an unregistered witch in Knockturn for at least the last two years."

Tom frowned. There was no way a first-year could survive in Knockturn… "How old is she?"

"Fourteen. I assume." He sighed, "It's hard to tell. She  _has_  had a Time-Turner for two months, after all."

"So, how did you get involved?" he realised he didn't sound strictly polite, and hurriedly tacked on a hasty, "Professor?"

"Well, it just so happens that her family, like many Purebloods, had a long-standing agreement with the school. She has a place by birthright at Hogwarts. And since the ministry official seemed to be getting nowhere… I was asked to intervene."

 _Dumbledore to the rescue_ , thought Tom sourly,  _The ministry is so pathetic_.

"I hastened to find her, and met with her last week." Dumbledore gave a somewhat rueful chuckle. "It did not  _quite_  go as planned."

"Did you retrieve the Time-Turner?"

"I did, but she was incredibly suspicious, and seemed convinced I was about to murder or kidnap her at any moment. Once I realised she would not believe my friendly intentions, I decided to leave her Hogwarts letter and give her some time to think about it. Tonight, we shall attempt to present a united front and convince her of our earnest goodwill."

"That's why I'm here?" Tom thought he understood.

"Indeed. I hope that seeing a student will reassure her, and I have noticed that you seem to be, well-" he gave a soft chuckle, "Rather popular with the young ladies at Hogwarts."

Tom didn't smile. He knew what this was - a test. But was it for him, or this new student? Or possibly both? Things were never so simple with the old man.

"In addition," continued Dumbledore serenely, "You can consider it a school duty, as you have been made Prefect this year. Congratulations, by the way." He didn't sound particularly happy about it.

Tom blinked. "Thank you, sir."  _Of course I was made Prefect, you old twit_ , he thought arrogantly. "What year will she be going into, Professor?" he asked next.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, as if it was obvious. "Fifth. And as her classmate, you can ensure she settles in well." He'd clearly thought of everything.

He hid his annoyance. He didn't have time or energy to run after some dimwitted new student! "I thought she was fourteen, sir." He said instead, primly.

"Indeed, but her magic is rather advanced. I'm sure she won't have any problems academically; she seems a very capable young lady." His eyes suddenly caught sight of something and he smiled. "Ah, speak of the witch, and she doth appear!"

Tom looked around hurriedly, curious to see what the mystery girl that had dragged him from the orphanage looked like.

His eyes caught a slight figure cloaked in a dark robe, with a heavy cowl covering her face. Indeed, if Dumbledore had not been gazing directly at the figure, Tom would have dismissed her as yet another of Knockturn's strange inhabitants. She was tall for her age - only half a head shorter than Tom - but otherwise her cloak hid any other distinguishing features.

They watched as she reached the grimy black door of the building opposite and paused on the steps, before taking out a key and her wand. Then she glanced over her shoulder up and down the road somewhat furtively.

Dumbledore stood up, revealing their presence, and Tom scrambled to do the same. The old purple-robed wizard gave a cheery wave at the dark-robed figure, who had stiffened immediately as soon as she'd seen them watching her.

Dumbledore walked forward unhurriedly, beaming kindly. "It is good to see you again, my dear." He said gently, as if talking to a skittish horse.

Now that Tom was closer, he caught a glimpse of her face. She had fine features, everything in proportion, with a straight nose and high cheekbones. Her mouth was full and delicate, with a hint of stubbornness in the set of her jaw. Her eyes were large and brown, and flickered suspiciously between himself and the old wizard. But he didn't get the impression she was afraid… no, it was more like she was sizing them up. As if she was considering who to curse first.

After a moment, she gritted out a curt greeting, "Dumbledore," with a barely perceptible nod.

"This is a student of mine, Tom Riddle." Dumbledore said, indicating Tom, who gave a small smile that dripped of false friendliness. The girl didn't respond in kind, but narrowed her eyes slightly at him, causing Tom to bristle with annoyance, though he kept his carefully friendly mask in place. "And may I remind you that I am  _Professor_  Dumbledore." The girl's eyes flashed away from Tom and back to him. "May we come inside and talk?"

"I haven't yet decided that you will be my professor." She deadpanned back, with no sign of contrition at his small rebuke. Tom almost laughed out loud as he glanced back at Dumbledore and saw the old man blink. "But, I suppose you may enter." She added, rather grudgingly, after a slightly awkward pause.

Dumbledore sighed as she turned to the door and began unlocking it. But he reasoned that it  _was_  a sign of progress that she at least felt comfortable enough to turn her back on them. He watched in amusement as she inserted the key into no fewer than five locks, each seeming to require a different whispered password and wave of her wand before he heard the heavy bolts sliding back.

At last, the door swung open and she stalked in, not bothering to see if they followed.

"Close it behind you." She ordered bluntly over her shoulder as she ascended a rickety staircase rapidly.

Tom, being last through, pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the grimy, narrow hallway, and then watched as the five complicated bolts moved on their own back into place, sealing the door shut. He briefly wondered how Dumbledore had managed to get in the first time he'd visited, before he followed the professor up the stairs and into a room at the top.

The staircase and entrance hall had been musty with dark, damp wood panelling painted peeling black. But this contrasted starkly with the room that the strange girl called home. He stepped into the light and dry warmth of a large room and looked around with interest. A large fireplace dominated the centre of the room, with a cheerfully crackling fire burning unattended in the hearth. Next to it was a narrow bed, still unmade and strewn with crumpled clothes. She was quite messy. Nearly every surface in the room was stacked high with  _stuff_. Books, quills, parchment, newspapers, clothes, miscellaneous crockery… even the brightly patterned carpet of the floor was barely visible. There was a large four-legged wooden table in the centre of the room with a single chair, groaning under the weight of more clutter, but that wasn't what Tom looked at first. His eyes were drawn immediately to the stuffed bookshelves that lined every wall except one, from the floor to the high ceiling. The one open wall was papered with notes in a cursive scrawl and what seemed to be newspaper clippings, chaotically layered like a strange artwork.

It gave Tom a slight headache just looking at it, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably as he saw the only purely decorative item in the room, a painting of a Scottish landscape, hanging askew.

The girl took off her cloak and cowl and tossed them carelessly onto her bed, adding to the growing mountain of clothes there, and ran a hand through her hair, which was brown and cropped short to just above her shoulders. She wore a grey high-necked dress and black tights, and unlike her cloak, it looked expensive and well-made. There was even lace cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves. Tom suddenly remembered she was a Gray. Did that mean she had access to an inherited fortune like the Malfoys and the Blacks?

She seemed slightly more relaxed in her own space, and waved her wand at the table, shifting the piles of books and papers to another corner of the room. Tom didn't miss the fact that the spell was non-verbal, although that wasn't particularly hard…

"I'll prepare some tea." She said, in a tone that was marginally warmer than the one she'd used before, and went over to the fireplace, where a heavy black kettle hung on a iron rod.

"Splendid." Said Dumbledore, and conjured two extra chairs at the table for himself and Tom.

"Your collection of books is impressive." Tom commented politely as he sat down, remembering that he was supposed to ingratiate himself to her.

She glanced at him as she added tea leaves to the pot. "…Thank you." She said stiffly, after a moment.

Tom glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

"You know," continued Tom slowly, as if remarking on the weather, "The library at Hogwarts is the most extensive magical library in Europe."

"Is-is that so?" although she tried to hide it, she couldn't quite stop the eagerness from infecting her voice.

Tom smiled charmingly, knowing he had her full attention. "Indeed." He said, and then gave a chuckle, "A student could spend  _years_  reading and not get through even a quarter of the books."

The girl looked oddly subdued as she brought the steaming pot over to the table, as well as conjuring a pitcher of milk, a pot of sugar, and three cups complete with spoons. Tom didn't miss that, once again, all her wand work was non-verbal. The spells were quite simple, true, but the speed and ease at which she accomplished her tasks even while she was obviously distracted was… impressive.

Dumbledore commenced pouring the tea and then addressed her. "So, Amalia, have you given any thought to my invitation to Hogwarts?"

She sighed and laid down her wand carefully next to her hand, within easy reaching distance. She accepted a cup of tea from the old wizard, and nodded slowly. Tom eyed her wand. It was nondescript but in good condition - a light brown colour with a carved handle, almost as long as his.

"I did some research about you, and Hogwarts," Amalia admitted, "And it seems like a good school."

"But?" prompted Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling kindly at her.

"I don't really have a choice at all, do I?" she said seriously. "The Ministry won't let an underage witch run around without a formal education. Now that I was  _found_ -" it was almost comical the way she sounded so cross with herself, " _They_  won't let me be."

Dumbledore didn't bother denying her words. "Perhaps you are looking at this the wrong way," he said instead, "Hogwarts is not the Ministry - they do not have jurisdiction over its students. I know that you distrust the Ministry, but I can assure you that you will be safe at Hogwarts."

Tom could tell by her frown that she didn't believe him.

"Amalia, you can find a home at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, his voice earnest. "It can't have been easy, living here by yourself all this time."

"I don't mind my own company," argued Amalia, but Tom could tell she was beginning to cave in.

"It may be a bit of an adjustment at first," Tom said, with false sympathy, "But there is no need to be afraid…"

She glared. "I'm not afraid," she growled instantly.

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, barely concealing his smug look at her predictable response.

"Then you will become a student at Hogwarts?" prompted Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows at her in mild expectancy.

Amalia looked in irritation between them, and Tom half expected her to hiss like an annoyed cat. Then, she sighed and looked away. "Fine." She snapped.

"Excellent." Dumbledore said, satisfied.

"On one condition,  _Professor_ ," Amalia interrupted, raising one finger.

"Oh?" said Dumbledore indulgently, "And what is that?"

"I know it is customary for the Ministry to question anyone who has been in possession of a Time-Turner. I will answer any questions about it, but not to  _them_." Tom eyebrows rose at her venomous tone when she spoke of the Ministry, and he wondered what she had against them.

Dumbledore surveyed her for a moment, and then nodded. "That is not a problem. I can take your statement and pass it on. You do not need to have contact with the Ministry at all."

She nodded, looking relieved. "Oh, and I don't wish to talk about my past." She added hastily. "I moved to Knockturn two years ago. Before that… It isn't relevant."

Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. "That's  _two_  conditions, my dear." He read the firmness in her eyes and inclined his head. "Nonetheless, I accept them. However, if you  _do_  wish to talk to me about anything, please remember that my door will always be open."

She nodded, hesitated, and then in a surprisingly formal gesture she stuck out her hand. Dumbledore took it in his stride and solemnly shook it across the table. Tom fought with himself not to roll his eyes.

After that, the atmosphere seemed a little less tense, and they all sipped their tea in silence for a short while. Then, clearly making an effort to demonstrate her goodwill, Amalia gave a polite smile and said, "I got the fifth-year course books and had a look through them."

Tom felt a stab of annoyance as he realised she had a head-start on him…

"Oh, and what did you think?" inquired Dumbledore.

"They all seem pretty straightforward," she said seriously, and Tom couldn't detect any boastfulness in her tone, only honesty. She hesitated. "Except Potions. I think I'm far behind in Potions."

"I'm certain you'll manage just fine," Dumbledore said reassuringly, "And Tom here is top of his class in Potions. I'm sure he would have no issue with helping you should you need it."

Her large brown eyes travelled to him and once again Tom felt like he was being sized up. He felt a prickle of annoyance at her directness, but still managed to force a smile onto his face. "Of course." He said smoothly, "I'd be delighted."

To his surprise she narrowed her eyes slightly at him, as if suspicious. Had she seen something in his expression…? Her eyes slid back to Dumbledore. "What happens now?" she asked.

"Well, as you know, the school term starts in two days. You are welcome to meet Tom and I at the train station-"

"Professor, are you staying nearby?" she interrupted him.

He paused, then replied, "The Leaky Cauldron."

She nodded with a bird-like movement, a shifty expression coming over her face. "Then if it is alright with you, I would like to stay there until the term starts." Her eyes darted to the door as if she expected enemies to come bursting through at any moment. "This location has already been compromised." She muttered to herself in a low, serious voice.

Tom couldn't quite hold back an incredulous snort at her paranoia, but then tried to cover it up with a hasty cough.

Amalia wasn't fooled, and glared, looking down her nose at him.

If Dumbledore had thought her request was odd, he certainly didn't show any sign of it. "Very well," he said genially, "Would you like any help packing?"

"No, it's alright, thanks." Amalia said, and rose from the table. She looked ruefully around at her cluttered room, as if unsure where to begin.

After a moment's deliberation, she strode over and dragged a large trunk out from where it had been concealed behind a chest-high stack of books. It had an ornate crest engraved on the lid. Tom wondered if it was her family crest. She heaved it open, and began waving her wand. Books leapt out of the shelves and flew into the trunk at speed, making muffled thumps as they disappeared inside.

"It's enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm," she explained as she walked around the room, "It was very expensive, but worth it, I think."

"If I may ask," said Dumbledore politely, "Did you inherit money? Hogwarts has a fund for students who don't have any of their own."

A dark expression swept over her face, but she decided to answer, "Yes, whatever family I may have had left a small fortune at Gringotts."

 _May have had? So, she'd never met her family?_  Tom rose quietly and walked around the table, interested in the wall papered with newspaper clippings and written notes. Amalia was distracted by folding her crumpled clothes on the other side of the room with an irritable expression.

" _Mysterious fire in Hampshire_ " read the headline of one clipping, and the picture of a burnt-out ruin was frozen - from a muggle newspaper. It was dated two years ago.

Next to it was a list of names, about twenty of them, under the scrawled heading " _Involved?_ " Three had been crossed out.

"Mind your own business." Interrupted a sharp voice from behind him, and Tom turned with a bland expression.

She scowled darkly up at him and angrily waved her wand. With a ripping sound, all the papers came free of the wall at once and sorted themselves into a messy pile in midair. Another wave and they, too, disappeared into the seemingly bottomless trunk.

Tom shrugged, as if he wasn't burning with curiosity, and walked casually back to the table, which he leant against and folded his arms to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the room was absolutely cleared of all traces of her existence, except the bare furniture.

Dumbledore vanished her trunk, like he'd done with Riddle's, and then they descended the stairs and exited the building in silence. Amalia closed the door behind her and locked it, and couldn't quite hide a small sigh as she left the building for good. But she squared her shoulders and looked resolute as she followed Dumbledore through the twisting roads of Knockturn towards Diagon Alley.

As they travelled, Tom kept expecting her to start babbling, as in his experience girls were wont to do. But she seemed more tense outside, and he started getting annoyed with the way her eyes flickered back and forth constantly, eyeing the shadows as if they could bite. Every now and then she would look behind her quickly, as if to catch a follower by surprise.

It was with some relief that they walked into the familiar bustle of The Leaky Cauldron, busy even at this late hour. Tom found he was ravenously hungry, and almost forgot his dislike of Dumbledore when the wizard insisted on ordering massive plates piled with food for each of them.

Dumbledore watched in amusement as his two charges fell on their meals. They were both on the skinny side, after all.

"It's not going to run away, Ms Gray," chuckled Dumbledore, and she blushed slightly over her almost-empty bowl of stew.

Tom's Sheppard's pie had already disappeared entirely, and his knife and fork were neatly crossed on his plate. He was already thinking longingly of the bed that awaited upstairs.

Amalia made an effort to chew slower, and swallowed carefully. "Eating was such a headache while using the Time-Turner," she said, unexpectedly forthcoming.

"Oh?" asked Dumbledore, inclining his head.

Amalia nodded, and rolled her eyes. "It was easy to forget, and then realize I had to leave food in the past for my future self… very confusing."

"You had the Time-Turner for two months, correct?" asked Dumbledore, a small frown creasing his forehead.

Amalia nodded. "Don't worry," she said easily, "I kept extensive records of what I was doing each day, so that I wouldn't get confused and be seen in the same place at the same time."

"I see." There was a stern look in his gaze, "However, you could have easily made a mistake and endangered yourself, or others."

Amalia didn't look contrite, but she did nod. "I know. But it was necessary, and I was as careful as I think I could have been."

Dumbledore read honesty in her gaze, but didn't understand. "Why was it so necessary?"

"I needed to learn how to defend myself in a short amount of time." She explained with a shrug. "They were attacking more often, and I knew it was only a matter of time before they found where I was living."

"They?" asked Tom, raising a skeptical eyebrow, "Who?"

Her expression darkened as she glanced at him, as if she'd forgotten about his presence, and was annoyed that he was in the conversation. "How am I supposed to know?" she asked hotly, as if he'd asked a stupid question. "Sometimes they'd be Ministry men, and other times they had masks!"

"Masks?" he sneered.

Dumbledore interrupted before Amalia could argue back. "And what did they do, when they… attacked?"

"Well, sometimes they would just try to kill me," she said matter-of-factly, "And other times they would try to capture me… I don't know why, so don't ask me!" despite her tone, she seemed quite upset, and looked at her stew, unhappy.

"The Ministry was just trying to track you down for the Time-Turner," explained Dumbledore, trying to calm her down, but she shook her head emphatically.

"No," she argued, "It's the other way around. The Ministry men were the ones trying to kill me. Not those idiots searching for the Time-Turner -  _they_  never got close enough to do  _anything_."

Tom looked at the ceiling and struggled to hold back his laughter. Crazy as a coot, this one was…

Dumbledore certainly didn't sound convinced, as he said wearily, "And you have no idea why any of these men would seek you out?"

Her fork clattered in her empty bowl as she stood up abruptly. "I don't! I know you don't believe me, and I don't care." She raised her chin defiantly. "I'll give you my notes on the Time-Turner - that was the deal. I mostly used it to sit in my room and practice magic, anyway. Please don't concern yourself with any of my other problems."

"Amalia-"

"Good-night, Professor." And she stalked off to her room on the upper floor without another word.

Tom barely hid a grin at the look of frustration on Dumbledore's face - he didn't often see that. "Do you think she's telling the truth, Professor?" asked Tom, with false concern etched in his voice.

Dumbledore sighed, and looked even older than usual. "I think  _she_  believes it's true." He said thoughtfully, "But, I also think she's been living alone for a long time."

 _Even Dumbledore thinks she's nuts,_  Tom thought smugly. "I think you may be right." He said somberly, and stood up as well.

"Good night, Professor."

The next day went by in a blur of activity. Tom left Dumbledore and his new charge to do Amalia's shopping in the morning. He felt  _right_  again as he did his own long-overdue shopping, and saw many Hogwarts students among the throng in Diagon Alley as it was the day before the start of term. He stayed out late, and only arrived back at The Leaky Cauldron when it was already getting dark.

He spotted Dumbledore in a discussion with a group of awestruck-looking old wizards in emerald robes, but didn't know what language they were speaking in. He resisted rolling his eyes - what made him so great, anyway?

But as he passed by, Dumbledore looked over and motioned to him.

He fixed a polite smile on his face and walked over.

"Tom," said Dumbledore when he was close enough, "Before you go to bed, tell Ms Gray we are leaving at precisely eight o' clock tomorrow morning."

Tom nodded, his cheerful mood somewhat dampened at the thought of speaking to the neurotic girl. But he went upstairs and paused at her door and called out, "Ms Gray, are you in there?" he heard no reply, so he raised his hand and knocked.

As soon as his knuckles connected with the wood of the door, a surge of energy like a bolt of electricity flashed through him, and he jerked back, cursing. There was a red welt on his hand where the spell had burnt him.

He glared at the door and considered blasting the damn thing into splinters. Who in seven hells put a Stinging Hex on the door of an inn?!

He heard footsteps and the door cracked open, and Amalia stood there, pointing her wand at him suspiciously. "Oh, it's just you." She said, and her eyes lost their interest. He felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew for a fact that all female students at Hogwarts would have squealed in delight, or shrank back in fear at the sight of him at their door, not curled their lip in barely disguised disdain!

She left the door open and walked back inside. He stalked after her.

She walked over to the bed and picked up a book which she had obviously just been reading. It was Advanced Potion-Making, Year Five.

"We're leaving at eight tomorrow," he spat, still rubbing the welt on his hand, "Don't be late."

"I won't be." She answered emotionlessly.

He turned on his heel to march out before he hexed her out of annoyance.

"Riddle," she said suddenly, making him pause.

"What?" he snapped.

"What house are you in?" she seemed genuinely curious.

"…Slytherin." He replied.

She nodded. "Is that the best house?"

"Of course." He said arrogantly.

She seemed thoughtful. "Do you think I will make it into Slytherin?"

He looked into her big brown eyes and said coldly, "No." Slytherin was no place for paranoid hoarders, after all.

She blinked. "Oh." She looked down at the Potions book and traced a finger over the cover.

"Dumbledore mentioned you live in a muggle orphanage." She said suddenly, "Is that true?"

Tom just looked at her, with ice in his eyes, while he imagined cursing Dumbledore in the worst way possible for the umpteenth time.

Amalia saw the answer in his stiff expression, and inclined her head. "Are you muggleborn?" she asked next, in a matter-of-fact voice.

Tom, who had been determined not to give anything else away, couldn't help a disgusted expression flitting across his face, and he snarled, "No!"

"A Half-blood, then." Concluded Amalia simply, and, seeing confirmation in his glare, she shrugged and returned her attention to her book.

Tom tried to contain his fury with difficulty. How  _dare_  this insolent little girl speak to him like this…?! In his pocket, he felt his wand heating up under his fingers as he itched to curse her pretty little face right off… not that he thought she was pretty, of course…

He was distracted from his rage by her next words. "I sometimes wonder… why aren't there any  _magical_  orphanages…?" she murmured, as if she'd forgotten Tom's presence entirely. She sounded… wistful.

_Magical orphanages? … Was she an orphan, then?_

…  _I moved to Knockturn two years ago. Before that… It isn't relevant._

…  _Yes, whatever family I may have had left a small fortune at Gringotts._

Tom's rage faded to a dull roar at the back of his mind as he was gripped by a terrible curiosity.

_Who was she? What had happened in her past?_

Whatever her story was, she was certainly  _different_. And different was interesting…

As he left her room, he pondered everything he knew about her. It wasn't much. And now she knew he was Half-blood. Though it wasn't exactly a secret at Hogwarts, he certainly didn't broadcast it, and those that did know also knew to keep their mouths  _shut_. Could she use this against him…?

He shook his head at his own folly. There was no  _way_  she posed a threat to him. The notion was laughable. But he wanted to understand the mystery that was Amalia Gray… and he vowed darkly to himself that he would do it… Even if it meant he had to get his hands dirty in the process.

He threw himself down on his bed and let an evil grin twist his handsome features. This might actually be quite fun…


	2. Friends and Enemies

Tom watched Amalia carefully as they approached Platform nine and three-quarters, but she showed no sign of nerves. Her face was composed, her movements sure, and as they got closer she didn't seem as suspicious as usual of the muggles that thronged the busy train station.

Dumbledore explained how the entrance to the platform worked, and Amalia showed immediate interest. She even abandoned her trolley loaded with her newly acquired school supplies, complete with a rather aristocratic-looking barn owl, and stepped next to the brick wall, tapping it gently with her wand and whispering a short spell. She leaned in close as if to listen to the reverberation in the bricks. Tom thought he saw the bricks shiver, as if they were a reflection in a pool that had been disturbed, but it stopped when he blinked.

Looking like her curiosity had been satisfied, she drew back and then pushed her trolley through the barrier without hesitation or a backward glance and disappeared.

Dumbledore chuckled at her behaviour - his eyes sparkled with admiration for whatever she had done. Tom felt a stirring of anger, and quickly pushed through the barrier after her.  _Just wait until you get to the castle_ , he sneered to himself,  _We'll see who's impressive there_.

The platform was heaving with students and their parents, and he swiftly lost sight of both Amalia and Dumbledore, who went their separate ways. The train whistled loudly, adding to the cheerful cacophony of noise that irritated Tom even further, though he strode through the rabble purposefully. He hated crowds.

"Riddle!"

He recognised the voice and turned his head slightly, acknowledging the speaker. "Rosier."

"D-did you have a good summer?" asked the smaller fair-haired boy in a slightly breathless voice.

Tom felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the glassy submissiveness in his classmate's eyes.  _This_  was how he should be treated. He ignored the question coldly and said, "Tell the others to wait in the usual compartment. I've been made Prefect, so I will be joining you all later."

"Of course." Agreed the boy immediately, with an eager dipping of his head.

Riddle gestured and Rosier hurried to take his trolley to the baggage car for him. As Riddle stalked off towards the nearest entrance to the train he heard Rosier's voice carrying over the crowd.

"Mulciber! Get over here and help me. Riddle's just arrived - he's going to meet us inside…"

"Excuse me, ladies…" Tom murmured to a bunch of third-year girls blocking the doorway. With high-pitched giggles and instant blushing, they pulled each other away from his path, staring with wide eyes hungrily at his handsome features, but too frightened to say a word.

He smirked at them as he passed and they almost fell over.

"That's a useful trick." Said a chuckling voice from right behind him, and he turned to see Amalia following him through the gap he'd created. She'd gotten her luggage onto the train already, and was looking around with interest at all the people around them. She was tall enough to tower over the third-year girls who immediately stopped their giggling, looking shocked.

He scowled at her. "Are you following me, Gray?" he demanded coldly. The third years followed them onto the train and gasped and whispered to each other, watching the exchange with wide eyes. Who on was this person who spoke so informally with Tom Riddle? Why did she wear Hogwarts robes undecorated by any house colours?

"You're the only person I know, remember?" she reminded him, one eyebrow raised as if she didn't think much of his tone.

"So what?" he snapped, regretting it as he noticed they were starting to draw attention. Riddle, the perfect gentleman, arguing with a new student…? His reputation was on thin ice here.

She scowled at him. "I wanted to share a compartment with you." She stated, as if it was obvious.

He felt his lip starting to curl at the thought of it, but he held back the venomous rejection teetering on the tip of his tongue and instead gave a stiff, apologetic smile, glancing from their onlookers back to her. "Unfortunately," he said, false sincerity dripping from his words, "I have Prefect duties to attend to. You will have to find a compartment on your own."

She didn't seem dismayed at all, but merely nodded and looked past him, as if disinterested. "Alright then, see you later." She said dismissively, and, "Scuse me…" she pushed past him, heading further into the train.

He grimaced at her rudeness - she'd actually dared to touch him as she passed - and stalked off in the other direction, grateful to leave her far behind.

Amalia walked down the train passage purposefully, peering into each compartment briefly before moving on. They were mostly full, and the few ones that were reasonably empty invariably seemed to contain pale-faced first years. While she knew she had the most in common with them, she was seeking more than just someone to sympathise with. She needed information on the school. The more she knew before she arrived, the better equipped she would be to deal with whatever this new chapter of her life would throw at her.

She noticed an empty compartment and hesitated. She wondered if anyone would join her if she entered alone… but it wasn't ideal. She glanced back where she'd come from and noticed the giggling third-years from earlier. They seemed to be following her, judging by the badly concealed glances and nudges they were giving each other when they looked at her. She remembered how they'd acted around Riddle and barely avoided rolling her eyes.

She tensed in annoyance - she hated girls like these - but fixed a friendly smile on her face anyway. Just because she disliked them didn't mean they couldn't be  _useful_ , after all.

"Hello." She said warmly, "This compartment is empty. Would you mind sharing it with me? I'm a new student this year."

A girl with heavy-lidded eyes and a pretentious smile stepped up, eyeing her somewhat rudely. "You're a little old for a first-year, aren't you?" she sneered.

The girls behind her collapsed into titters at her words.

Amalia forced her smile to remain fixed on her face, but felt a muscle in her eye twitch. "It's a good thing I'm going to be in fifth year, then," she said, with a trace of sharpness, and inclined her head at the compartment. "Shall we?"

Something in her challenging gaze must have intimidated the girl, because her smile slipped off her face, and she hesitated, unsure how to respond. She glanced uncertainly at her friends, then shrugged with false bravado. "Sure." She said, and her and her two friends followed Amalia in.

"I'm Amalia Gray." She said genially, seating herself by the window. She crossed her legs elegantly and watched as the other three sat down awkwardly across from her, as if called into a meeting with the principal. Her calm eyes measured each of them carefully until they shifted uncomfortably, and then she casually pulled out her wand and flicked it - the door slid shut with a gentle  _click_.

The heavy-lidded girl found her voice again with an effort. "Olive Hornby," she said bravely, "And this is Becca Harrows and Marcy Edwards."

"It's nice to meet you." Amalia said politely.

"How do you know Tom Riddle?" blurted out the blonde girl seated next to Hornby.

Hornby smirked. "Marcy here's got a crush on him." She told Amalia, causing the other girl to blush furiously.

"Yes, he's very attractive, isn't he?" Amalia agreed, and gave a very un-Amalia-like giggle. "Clever, too." She smiled bashfully, "We talked for  _ages_  about the classes we're going to have together, and he even agreed to help me with Potions."

"No way! Really?" squealed Marcy, and the slightly overweight girl, Becca Harrows, gasped enviously and almost fell off her seat.

_What fools_ , sneered Amalia to herself,  _I almost feel sorry for them_. "So what's he like in school?" Amalia asked curiously, "I only spent  _some_  time with him in the holidays." She exaggerated easily, seeing the admiration in their vapid expressions. She listened attentively as they gushed on what was clearly a favourite subject for the next half-hour. By that time, the train had departed the station and was taking them further and further into the countryside.

Amalia felt her heart lightening as she left the dreariness and danger of London far behind. Her research had told her that Hogwarts was one of the safest places in Europe, impregnated with so many protective wards and enchantments that it was considered nigh impossible to infiltrate. If she wasn't safe there, she wouldn't be safe anywhere. That safety was worth even the tedium of letting some bird-brained girls chatter on about Riddle if they wanted to.

Gradually they exhausted the topic of extolling his many virtues (which Amalia was highly doubtful of), and she managed to slip in questions about more important matters. She learnt about the Sorting hat, the different houses, the teachers, ghosts, classes and the library.

She also picked up more information than she wanted about who to make friends with. The three imbecilic girls were in the academically brilliant Ravenclaw, which she found ironic since they seemed so silly. Gryffindors were loud and annoying, she learnt, while Hufflepuffs were alright, if a little dim.

Slytherins were generally an unpleasant bunch - with a few exceptions, like Riddle - but she also gathered from their tone that they were quite elitist. After all, some of the most powerful magical families called Slytherin home. She had no idea which house she wanted to be sorted into - they all seemed rather restrictive.

As the food trolley came around, she surprised her companions by buying a massive amount of food, and eating it with enthusiasm, too.

"Aren't you afraid of putting on weight?" asked Hornby in a somewhat scandalised tone.

"Yes, you should be more careful," agreed Marcy, her blonde ponytail bouncing with earnestness, "You're so pretty and thin already!"

Amalia glanced at the overweight Becca Harrows, who flushed and tried to hide the chocolate frog she'd been about to eat from her friends. "I don't care much about my weight," Amalia said with a careless shrug, and took an enormous bite of a pumpkin pasty, "Life's too short to worry about that kind of thing… Don't you think?"

Olive Hornby still looked scandalised, and shook her head disapprovingly, but somehow she felt like she'd been gently chastised. This Amalia Gray seemed so self-assured - she looked graceful reclining against the window seat with her long legs stretched out on the seat beside her, and there was something refined about her even as she stuffed her face. How was that even possible?!

Marcy Edwards gave a shrill squeak as she caught sight of a certain dark-haired Prefect passing their compartment, and they all looked around.

Amalia, still pretending that she was on good terms with him, waved cheerfully, and was rewarded by a curt nod before he moved on.

As Tom walked past he heard her laugh merrily as the girls started pestering her with questions about their "relationship". He fumed silently and felt his fingers twitch as they itched to close around her slender neck at the thought of her telling those idiot girls Merlin-knew-what about him…

"Who's that?" asked the sallow-faced boy following close behind him. A Prefect badge also glinted on his chest. He was curious about this girl who seemed to be friendly with Riddle.

"No one important, Dolohov," snapped Tom, an ugly look entering his eyes. "Some new fifth year."

"If you say so," acquiesced the other boy quickly, but looked back somewhat wistfully. "It's just… she's kind of attractive, don't you think?"

"I don't agree." Said Tom coldly, as they arrived at the compartment where the rest of his little group was assembled and waiting for him. "As I already said, she isn't important."

"Who isn't important?" asked Leonard Avery, the lanky youth seated closest to the door as they walked in. "It's good to see you, Riddle."

Tom merely nodded as he pushed through the group to the window seat that had been left open for him.

"There's a new student coming into fifth year," explained Antonin Dolohov eagerly, missing Tom's irritable expression, "She looks… interesting. Riddle knows her."

At his words the other boys stirred, grinning. Avery, the loud-mouth of the group, instantly demanded a description, and Dolohov enthusiastically obliged.

Tom felt like hitting his own head against the window beside him at their stupidity. When had these fools become hormone-crazed imbeciles?! Amalia  _was_  half-decent looking, he had to admit, but  _they_  didn't know she was paranoid lunatic with a hoarding problem.

"Don't get too excited," drawled a broad-chested boy with shoulder-length black hair. His voice was deep and somewhat harsh. "What's her blood status? Do you know, Riddle?"

Tom felt annoyed that they were still talking about her, but Silas Lestrange, the one who'd asked, was looking expectantly at him. He shouldn't start ordering them around as soon as he walked in… He might as well indulge their curiosity for now. "Pureblood." He answered curtly, and raised an eyebrow at Avery, who actually punched the air and said, "Yes!"

"Calm down," chided Theodore Rosier, who sat closest to Riddle and seemed to sense his mood, "Riddle already said she isn't important."

"At least tell us her name," begged Avery, with his usual flair for the dramatic. "You can't blame us for being excited, Riddle, the girls in our year are all trolls."

Tom smirked as they all looked at him expectantly, and paused, dragging out the silence. "Fine." He said with an indulgent sigh, "Her name is Amalia Gray."

"Gray?"

"But that's-"

"Nott, didn't you have an aunt that was related to a Gray-?"

"I thought the Grays were extinct." As usual, Lestrange's harsh words cut through the other's chatter.

"I thought so, as well." Said Tom quietly. He looked around the group. "I tire of discussing this. My last word on the subject of Amalia Gray is that I think she's hiding something." The other boys exchanged glances at this interesting news. Tom met each of their eyes, the cold expression in his gaze reminding them just who was in charge. "If any of you find out anything of note about her, I want to be informed. That is all."

"But-"

"This subject is now  _closed_ , Avery." Warned Tom in a softly dangerous voice, and the other boy swallowed nervously, nodding.

"Now, to other matters." Announced Tom coldly. "Now that I am Prefect, it's going to be much easier to get around the castle. I think we can move our meetings to a better location…

_Definitely not a Hufflepuff_ , chuckled a sly voice in her ear, as she waited for the Sorting Hat to make a decision,  _At least we can eliminate that possibility_ …

She blinked and looked out at the Great Hall, where a sea of faces stared at her. All the first-years had been sorted, and with the eyes of everyone fixed on her, she felt the first flutterings of nerves since she woke up that morning. She didn't mind being in a crowd, where she could blend in and observe, or talking to people one-on-one, where she could control the conversation… But she didn't like being the centre of attention. Here, sitting on a stool in the middle of the open space in front of the teacher's table, anyone could attack her and she'd be helpless to react in time.

_I'm not in Knockturn anymore_ , she reminded herself, quelling the jittery feelings with sheer willpower,  _I'm safe here. Hogwarts is safe. I'm not afraid_.

_Bravery in the face of overwhelming odds… But also a dislike of dependence_ , noted the hat as it listened to her thoughts,  _A preference for your own company over that of others._

" _I can't argue with that_ ," she said ruefully in her mind.

_So not a Gryffindor, then_ , surmised the hat.  _What about Ravenclaw? You prize learning and enjoy the challenge of discovery-_

"Ugh." Her nose wrinkled as she thought of Olive Hornby and her silly little friends.

_Alright, then_ , said the hat,  _it'll have to be_ …

"SLYTHERIN!" The hat shouted, making her jump slightly even though she'd been expecting it.

She gratefully took off the hat, thankful that the ordeal was over, and stood, as the green and silver house on her far right clapped and cheered. Her eyes searched until she found Riddle, who was sitting near the end of the closest table, and looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

She gave him a brilliant smile and strode purposefully towards him.  _See_ , she thought smugly,  _I did make it into Slytherin, despite what you think of me!_  He had a dark expression on his face, but Amalia doubted anyone else noticed, because they were still busy staring at her.

Her eyes flicked past him to the ones sitting around him - a group of boys, clearly a posse. She felt surprised - he didn't seem the type to have friends. Although he'd seemed perfectly polite most of the time she'd been around him in the past two days, she had immediately noticed that his smiles never reached his eyes. She was good at spotting danger, and something about the way he looked at the people around him gave her chills. She'd noticed it in The Leaky Cauldron,  _and_  at the train station. He was not what he seemed.

But his 'friends' seemed normal enough, at first glance. At the last minute, she swerved away from Riddle and stopped instead at the bench directly opposite him, where two large boys were staring at her in delight.

"Would you mind making some room for me…?" she started asking shyly, brushing her hair behind her ear. She needn't have opened her mouth. Even as she said it they were standing up.

"Of course!" one babbled with a grin, while the other shoved the boy next to him - "Move  _over_ , Nott!"

They didn't leave a space for her at the end of the bench, as she assumed, but instead gestured at the gap they had created between themselves.

She nodded and accepted the seat without complaint, looking slightly embarrassed as the loud-mouthed boy on her right insisted on holding her hand as she stepped over the bench and sat down gracefully.

She looked up just in time to see Riddle rolling his eyes, and shot him a lazy grin before turning to her new benchmates.

Tom stiffened in disbelief. Had she just tipped him a lightning-fast wink?! Surreptitious glances at everyone else told him they hadn't noticed. His eyes narrowed at her. Was it his imagination, or was there something  _challenging_  in the way she'd grinned at him…?

"Amalia Gray, as you heard," she introduced herself warmly to the two lovestruck Slytherins, while all the other boys except Tom listened in enviously.

"I'm Leonard Avery," the loud-mouthed boy replied eagerly.

"Antonin Dolohov." The other gushed.

"It's nice to meet you." She said politely, and was spared further conversation by Headmaster Dippet, who had shuffled up to the podium and was waving his arms for silence.

"Now that we have greeted all our new students," he said somewhat pompously, "I trust that we have a fulfilling and enlightening year ahead of us all." The stiff smile on his face vanished, and he scowled sternly, raising a finger into the air as if he was about to start conducting an orchestra. "Misdemeanours," he barked, "Will not be tolerated! As always, the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden, the corridors are off-limits after hours, and break-ins at the Restricted Section of the library shall be dealt with  _most severely_." He glowered at them for extra emphasis.

Amalia let a grin steal across her face and looked around at Tom's group. "Well," she whispered theatrically, "I feel right at home already. Is he always so cheerful?"

The boys that had caught her words broke into sniggers, and Tom restrained himself from kicking them in the shins as Headmaster Dippet's heavy gaze fell on them.

"Ahem," coughed the man, clearly put off his speech by their antics, "Yes. Well… Study hard, respect your teachers, respect the name of your school." He clapped his hands. "Let the feast begin." He seemed relieved to be able to leave the podium.

Amalia gasped in genuine shock as the feast magically appeared on the table. Avery and Dolohov laughed at her expression.

"This is amazing." She muttered in awe, and immediately started piling her plate high with a bit of everything. The food she'd eaten on the train seemed like a distant memory.

There was a brief silence as everyone fell on the food. Amalia glanced up from her plate and caught Riddle staring at her with a flat gaze. He gave a razor-thin smile at her that didn't reach his eyes.

Holding his gaze, she raised her goblet and drank from it, giving him a tiny, mocking toast. She watched his eyes widen at her gesture, and then narrow. He had very dark eyes, she mused, and when he glared they seemed even darker, obsidian, almost reptilic.

Her eyes flicked away from him at last, and she turned to Dolohov, seated on her left. "So, could you introduce me to everyone else? I'll try my best to remember your names. Though I've already met Riddle, of course." She shot him a friendly smile, which he didn't return.

"Sure," said Dolohov easily, "This is Nott, Mulciber, Lestrange-"

"My pleasure," said the dark-haired boy on Riddle's right-hand side. He had a rather pronounced brow, and large nose and strong jawline, and yet, the heavy features suited him. His voice had a queer, almost guttural quality to it. His smile was more of a leer as his eyes travelled slowly up and down the parts of her that were visible above the edge of the table.

"-And Rosier." Finished Dolohov, nodding to the slight, fair-haired boy which sat on Riddle's left at the end of the bench.

Amalia was getting tired of smiling so much. She wished she didn't have to be around these boys - they stared too much and she'd rather eat the delicious food in peace and quiet. But she knew how important first impressions were, and she was resolved to fit in… at least until she found her feet.

So she kept smiling politely as she devoured a steak and succulent roast pork, with a side of healthy vegetables too.

"So, Amalia - May I call you Amalia? - What's your story?"

She noticed Tom look over sharply at this, and chewed her steak slowly, as if pondering her answer. But she'd already rehearsed what she was going to say.

"You'll have to excuse Avery," Dolohov interrupted with sneer from her other side, "He has the manners of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

Amalia swallowed her piece of steak and chuckled at his words, but turned to Avery and shrugged. "Sure, I don't mind." She picked up her goblet, but noticed she'd finished her pumpkin juice. The jug stood further along the table.

"Hmm, my story," she mused, as she slipped her wand out of her robe, "Where to begin…" she flicked her wand at the jug, which rose and floated easily down the table towards her, prompting some startled looks. In mid-air the jug tipped and filled up her goblet, without spilling a drop. "Does anyone want a refill?" she asked politely, while the jug hovered. "Avery? Riddle? No?" at Avery's mute shaking head and Riddle's icy stare, she sent the jug back down the table, setting it down gently. Then she took a dainty sip, seemingly oblivious to the way she'd just gotten everyone's attention.

"My story is quite simple." She said, putting her goblet down. "I've never been to magical school, though I know a fair bit. I suppose you could say I was… home-schooled, after a fashion," she shrugged. "As for my family, I have none." Now a sad expression came over her face, and she looked down as if she couldn't bear to meet their eyes. "I… I don't like talking about it." She looked up, and now she seemed ashamed. "Neither do I have many friends…" her eyes flickered around the table, "But  _that_  unhappy situation will not last long, I'm sure." She smiled sweetly, and Avery and Dolohov hastened to assure her that she was very welcome indeed, and if she was uncomfortable discussing her family they'd of course refrain from being nosy... They seemed to have forgotten Tom's orders rather conveniently. Tom narrowed his eyes at her. Where had the suspicious and secretive Amalia gone? Who was this… this… social butterfly, who deflected questions about her past so easily? She had a very expressive face, and she certainly wasn't stupid. Unlike his classmates…

He surveyed her carefully. He suddenly noticed that her wand was still out, on the table next to her hand. He noticed her knuckles go white around her fork as some Gryffindors at the table behind her abruptly roared with laughter. He saw her eyes glance twice, three times over the hall, to where the great double doors stood, as if she was wishing she could leave. No, for all her calm exterior… underneath she was still a neurotic mess.

He smirked. "So, Gray," he said abruptly, "Why  _did_  you decide to come to Hogwarts?"

She looked at him in surprise, and then hesitated. He knew why…

"There must be some important reason," he goaded her,  _Go on… start raving about the ministry men coming to kill you, go on… we'll see how fast Avery and Dolohov run away after hearing that_ … "For you to decide to just move here after so long by yours-"

"It was because of you, Riddle." She suddenly interrupted, with a bright smile. There was definitely a challenge in her eyes now.

He froze in shock, and then scowled when she continued sweetly, "Don't you remember? You were telling me about how big the library is… and how Slytherin was the best house…" a muscle twitched in Riddle's jaw as she fluttered her fake doe-eyes at him. He could tell she was laughing at him inside. "… So I just decided. I had to see it for myself!"

Now he was even getting curious looks from his followers-! Did they think that he  _liked_  her? Now his previous refusal to talk about her seemed like jealousy…

"You're going to love Hogwarts," assured Avery eagerly, from her right-hand side, drawing her attention back to him. "And you're in the only house worth being in, too."

"Is that so?" she said, with false interest. "What makes Slytherin the best?"

She listened attentively as Avery chattered on, filling the air with words, allowing her the chance to eat the last few pieces of her food in peace.

After a while it became apparent that he didn't require much from her by way of a response beyond the occasional nod, and she let her eyes drift around the table, assessing each of the Slytherins she'd met according to their level of threat.

Her eyes accidentally met the dark gaze of Lestrange, who was busy devouring what looked like the leg of a large turkey by hand. His direct stare pinned her with amused malice as his teeth ripped a strip of flesh from the bone, and she looked away quickly, hiding how disconcerted she felt at the sight.

Next to him, Riddle was also staring at her during Avery's monologue, but he was being much more discreet about it, more  _calculated_  than creepy. Even so, Amalia realised as she glanced between the swarthy, almost-feral Lestrange and the coolly handsome Riddle, with the correct posture and impeccable manners… they were both wolves among lapdogs. Which was more dangerous? She needed to be on her guard.

Dessert passed without much drama, and Amalia found she was able to get by without saying much. Avery and Dolohov competed for her attention, which she quickly found tedious, but they seemed satisfied with an occasional monosyllabic response and a half-hearted smile.

Tom watched her carefully throughout the meal, but his efforts at uncovering her secrets seemed to have hit a brick wall. She was surprisingly charming - that was something new - and if she kept it up he might have a hard time reining in his own followers. This would need some careful thought…

Once the feast was over, he had to lead the first years to the Common Room, and it was with some disquiet that he watched her get escorted out of the Great Hall surrounded by his cronies. Dolohov, also a Prefect, remained behind.

"Gather round, you little shits," Dolohov called cheerfully, waving the first-years into a small group. They numbered only eleven, all puny white-faced little things that made Tom's lip curl. He didn't remember ever being that small.

As they herded their charges out of the Hall, Dolohov turned to Tom. "I see now what you meant," he said in a low tone.

Tom raised one eyebrow, but didn't deign to respond.

"You know, when you said she was hiding something. She doesn't want to talk about herself… very suspicious." He didn't sound suspicious at all, just like he was saying this to earn some points with Tom.

"Indeed." He replied dryly.

"You know…" Dolohov said cautiously, "If you want to…  _uncover her secrets_ ," he coughed meaningfully, "The old-fashioned way, you only have to say so." He seemed to perk up when Tom made no reply except a withering glare. "Otherwise, you can just leave it to me." He sniggered.

Tom looked at him up and down, and then smirked. "Sure, go ahead." He said generously, "I don't mind."

"Really?" Dolohov seemed surprised.

"I told you all on the train I didn't find her interesting. I'm only interested in whatever she's hiding."

"Oh. Alright, then."

They arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room and ushered the first years inside. "Oh, Dolohov," Riddle said smoothly, as the lanky boy made to enter.

"Yes, Riddle?"

"Good luck." Something about the falsely sympathetic way Riddle said it made Dolohov's cheerful smile falter.

Riddle grinned wolfishly as he walked away from the Common Room. Somehow, he knew Amalia was far too smart to fall for the likes of Dolohov… or even worse, that idiot Avery. She didn't take any of them seriously. But  _him_ … the way she'd looked at Tom was  _different_. She wasn't fooled by his mask any more than he was by hers.

He'd lied. He found her immensely interesting... on that basis alone.

"It's so great to have another girl around!" enthused a bright-eyed girl with long, curly black hair.

Amalia followed her and two other girls down the winding stone staircase into the girls' dormitories. The third door down was for fifth years. She was quite surprised to see the spacious room, outfitted with four enormous four-poster beds complete with green silver-edged canopies and drapes. Her trunk and other belongings were neatly stacked at the foot of one of the beds.

"Wow, this is mine?" she sat down on the bed and gave an experimental bounce - the mattress was soft and the cover thick with expensive silk-lined quilting.

"Most of the girls' dorms have between five and eight beds per room, one for each year, but we were only three!" Explained the curly-haired girl eagerly, jumping onto her own bed on Amalia's right.

"That's why you were so popular with Riddle's lot at the feast." Explained a long-haired girl with a serious face. "They don't get to speak with girls much. I'm Anne Flint, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

"Merlin's pants, where are my manners? Sorry! I'm Callidora Black." The curly-haired girl bounced off her bed and insisted on grabbing Amalia's hand in a firm handshake.

Amalia returned her friendly smile, and felt a knot of tension loosening inside her. She liked this overly-demonstrative girl, somehow. She seemed… fun, without putting on airs.

"But we just call her Dora, unless she's being particularly annoying." Contributed Anne in her sombre way.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And this wilting wallflower is Charlotte Yaxley," introduced Callidora officiously, giving a dramatic flourish to the fourth girl in the room.

Charlotte, a small-boned girl with a pixie-like face, went pink when Amalia looked at her and mumbled shyly in a voice that was barely a squeak, "Hi."

"It's great to meet you," Amalia said with a rueful smile, "I was beginning to think I'd signed up for an all-boys school."

Callidora guffawed loudly. "Ah, they're not too bad, I guess, for cretinous leeches!"

"Where did you go to school before?" Anne asked, and Amalia was forced to launch into her rehearsed story again. Homeschooled her whole life - no family left - please don't bring it up.

The girls seemed to take her mysterious background in their stride, and treated Amalia to a short breakdown of their own histories.

Callidora Black was one of many Blacks currently at the school - all in Slytherin, and all related in some way.

"That must be nice?" Mused Amalia somewhat wistfully.

"It most certainly is not!" exclaimed Callidora dramatically, "Most people come to school to escape their family, and everywhere I turn I'm faced with a bloody dreaded cousin…"

"They're not all bad." Interrupted Anne, in her role as seemingly a counterweight to Callidora's constant exaggerations, "Alphard - he's in fourth year - is a decent sort."

"The one you have to steer clear of is Walburga Black." Said Callidora with an affected shudder. "If I wasn't related to her I would say she's definitely part troll."

"And hag." Added Anne.

Callidora nodded. "And hag."

Amalia laughed. "She's really that bad?"

"Oh yes. And she's sixth year- and a Prefect. So try not to get on her bad side. Not that she has a good side, come to think of it."

After that, Amalia learnt that out of the bunch, Anne was the studious one, Charlotte the "girly" girl of the group… and Callidora quite predictably was the trouble-maker. This was affirmed when, about an hour after they'd started talking, she pulled out a dusty bottle of firewhisky from her trunk.

The evening quite quickly degenerated after that. At first Amalia had been wary of the other girls, cautious of some ulterior motive, but soon she found herself laughing and joking along with them as though they'd been friends for years. The alcohol certainly helped.

It was just before midnight when Amalia accepted the last inch of firewhiskey in a small tumbler, feeling pleasantly dizzy.

"Damn. Sh'all gone." Slurred Callidora, and chucked the empty bottle back into her open trunk, where it hit something delicate with a crunch that made them all wince.

"Uh… I can't believe we have classes tomorrow…" Anne said mournfully, shaking her head.

"I can't wait." Said Amalia truthfully, her eyes lighting up. Dumbledore had signed her up for all the classes that could possibly fit on her timetable - and she couldn't wait for all of them.

"Me, too." Said Charlotte quietly, and hiccupped, blinking into her own empty cup in seeming surprise.

"Tha's because you can't wait to see… Lestrange," slurred Callidora with a wicked grin. Anne laughed and Charlotte blushed red like the setting sun.

Amalia turned to stare at the tiny, delicate girl in shock. She could not imagine her with the hulking, predatory Lestrange.

Callidora correctly interpreted her surprised expression and snorted. "It's unrequited, don't worry," she said with a chuckle. "Yaxley just has a thing for bad boys, I think."

"And you two?" Amalia asked, "Any of the boys interest you?"

Anne and Callidora shook their heads violently. "Definitely not!" shouted Callidora.

"Shush!" hissed Anne, and then fell about laughing as Callidora clapped a hand over her mouth in belated shock.

Charlotte was the first to announce the end of the festivities, by falling back on her bed and emitting a soft snore.

Anne went over to her trunk and began laying out her clothes neatly for the next day - hampered by the fact that she could barely stand straight.

Callidora found a pen from somewhere and proceeded to approach Charlotte slowly…with the stealth of a three-legged centaur, with the clear intent of drawing on her sleeping face.

As much as Amalia wanted to see this risky venture to its conclusion, she suddenly felt a pang of loneliness and regret.

"I'm - bathroom." She mumbled, and walked unsteadily to the door.

Somehow she found her way to the girl's lavatory just down the hall. It was deserted this time of night, and she splashed her face with water unhurriedly, her mind clearing slowly. Her dorm-mates were everything she could have hoped for. Warm, friendly… normal.

She didn't belong with them.

This bright and pleasant world, filled with friends and family and safety… it was alien to her. She mustn't forget who she was, what she'd been through. She mustn't forget that this was a temporary safe haven - outside the walls of Hogwarts, her demons were waiting. She mustn't forget…

Tom walked down the dungeon passages to the entrance of the Common Room, whistling a cheerful tune. He spoke the password and entered, feeling pleasantly tired from his long-overdue patrol of the halls of Hogwarts. He was home again.

Suddenly he froze, his good mood evaporating.

_The girl_  was lying on one of the couches, one arm thrown carelessly over her eyes. He thought at first she was sleeping, but then at the sound of the entrance closing behind him she raised her arm and tensed, looking up.

She stopped when she saw who it was.

"Oh, it's just you," she said dismissively, and slumped back down again, looking sleepily at the warm fireplace. It reminded her a little of her room in Knockturn.

Tom felt a now-familiar stab of annoyance as she ignored him on sight.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he hissed, annoyed that she'd caught him sneaking out. He was a Prefect, but he still wasn't allowed to go wandering the corridors so late.

Her jaw cracked with a massive yawn. "Mmm… I just… needed some air." She glanced at him. "What about  _you_?"

He bristled. "None of your business!" he snarled.

She raised her eyebrows at his tone. "Fine. Not like I care."

He huffed and glared at her, his good mood now completely ruined.

"Riddle, why do you hate me?" she suddenly asked.

"I don't." he lied quickly, startled.

"Yes, you do." She corrected him, and sighed. "Well, whatever…"

She stood up and walked away slowly from him. At the stairs to the dormitory she turned her head and looked back at him. "We don't have to be enemies, you know." She said suddenly, serious.

He just glared at her.

"I have too many enemies already."

He laughed at that, a mocking laugh.

Her gaze hardened. "I know you don't believe me, Riddle," she said tartly.

"You're delusional." He said scornfully, shedding his polite mask entirely. It felt so… freeing.

She appraised him for a moment with an approving look, acknowledging that he had finally decided to drop the act. "I'm not afraid of you." She said matter-of-factly.

"You don't know anything about me."

"That won't be the case for very long. And you don't know me, either."

"For now." He echoed her words with a mocking smile.

She laughed softly. "If that's how you want to play it, very well.  _Good luck_."

He blinked as she inadvertently used the same words he had with Dolohov, in precisely the same tone.

"But imagine, for a moment, that I  _am_  telling the truth." Now there was definitely a challenge in her stare, and Tom's smile melted off his face as he met her gaze. Tension like electricity crackled between them, and Tom tried to resist the urge to plunge his hand into his robes and pull out his wand. "If I'm telling the truth," she continued, her tone serious, "Then scores of wizards older and more powerful than you have tried to kill me.  _None have succeeded_."

A thrill of excitement ran through him.

"Just bear that in mind before you decide to become my enemy." She finished quietly, and then turned on her heel and disappeared into the stairwell.

Tom remained where he was for a short while, pondering her words. He ran his fingers over his long, pale wand. He wasn't used to being threatened. A bloodthirsty grin broke out over his face, and he found himself hoping she had the skill to back up her words. He  _did_  relish a challenge…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think of Amalia? She's not a perfect person… in fact, she's clearly capable of being quite manipulative. Which is why she makes a great Slytherin :) and a fitting match for Tom. And yet she's still at heart a nice person... while Tom's an evil git.
> 
> Walburga Black is the screaming portrait in Grimmauld Place ;)


	3. First Lessons

That night Tom dreamt vividly.

He knew he was dreaming - he'd long ago mastered the art of lucid dreaming, as part of his legilimency training - he often used the skill to plan, to strategise and clear his head. Rarely if ever did he indulge himself in idle imagination, but for some reason tonight he let his mind roam, curious to find out where it would take him.

_He was standing in a restless, faceless crowd, in a space big enough to be the Great Hall. He glanced around, mildly curious. Soon, he became quite sure that it_ was _the Great Hall, since overhead there was a carpet of stars and an inky night sky, yet he was under the distinct impression he was indoors._

_It was utterly silent, as dreams often are, and had the quality of a moving black-and-white photograph, the people inhabiting the dream blurred at the edges._

_The crowd seethed, one big mass of insignificant bodies busy doing whatever mundane tasks normal people did. He stood alone, an island of stillness within the crowd, as they walked around, past, behind him, never even glancing in his direction._

_He wasn't angry, or afraid, but coolly aloof, secure in the knowledge of his superiority. He had no feelings at all for these people, but a mild ennui and a general air of contempt tugged at him persistently._

_Then, suddenly, something changed. He recognised a face in the crowd. Another body, just like the others, but standing still, as he was, as if waiting._

_Their eyes met, and there was an instant flash of recognition in her clever brown eyes. The dream-Amalia was even more beautiful than she was in real life, her eyes large and bright, her lips red and full, splashes of colour in an otherwise colourless world._

_She grinned at him, showing white teeth, her expression playful and challenging. Quick as thought, she tipped him a lightning-fast wink, just as she had in the real-life Great Hall when she'd so boldly sat down across from him._

_Just like then, her wink was a secret communication, a sign_ only _for him, a message. **I know what you are.**_

_And she wasn't afraid._

_In the dream Tom smirked back at her, a pleasant excitement replacing his previous apathy, as they both drew their wands._

_The Hall was abruptly empty, the faceless masses fading like wraiths… and they faced each other, breathlessly tense with expectation before the duel…_

_He gave a mocking bow._

_Her grin widened._

_They raised their wands, and_ -

"R-Riddle?" the nervous whispered voice came from Rosier, and Tom blinked his way into wakefulness, scowling at the fair-haired boy hovering just outside of striking range next to his canopy bed. Bright morning light streamed in - though the Slytherin dormitories were located in the dungeons, the castle was situated on a mountainous outcrop of rock, and the window was like a small porthole, out of which the glittering surface of the Lake could be seen.

Tom lurched upright, rubbing his face as the excitement which had flooded his stomach from the prospect of the duel slowly faded. He glanced around sleepily, and ran a hand through his mussed-up hair. The rest of the dormitory was empty - the others had gone for an early breakfast, leaving Rosier the unhappy task of waking Tom up.

He should be in a hellish mood - as usual - especially since he'd had a late night, but the strangeness of the dream had a curiously energising effect on him.

To say Tom was not a morning person was putting it mildly. Several of his followers had been painfully and lastingly cursed for dressing too loudly on mornings when he'd wanted an extra lie-in, and since then there was always a vicious - yet utterly silent - race to get out of the room before Tom woke up.

The only one willing to come near him was the ever-faithful Rosier - or perhaps it was simply because he was the smallest, and the others bullied him into wake-up duty. They all knew that the consequences of letting Tom be late for class didn't bear thinking about, so  _someone_  had to do it.

Rosier's apprehensive expression wasn't the most cheerful thing to wake up to, for sure, but Tom decided he didn't care, and threw back the covers briskly. His good dream, though interrupted, had put him in a good mood, and he almost chuckled when he heard Rosier's almost-inaudible sigh of relief after seeing Tom's relaxed expression.

He dressed swiftly, making sure he looked impeccable, and scrutinised himself in the long mirror next to the door to the dormitory. His hair was behaving, and he didn't have any bags under his eyes, which was a relief since he had been out late the previous night. He frowned and straightened his tie, his long, pale fingers deftly unpicking and re-tying the knot so that it was in perfect proportion. Thus satisfied, he exited the room, with Rosier in tow, and strode confidently to the Common Room.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he entered the room at the same time as the four fifth-year girls. Three of the four looked rather worse for wear - their eyes bloodshot and their expressions wan.

"Mornin', Riddle." Yawned Callidora Black, spotting him walking out. He gave a courteous nod in return. Callidora was a strange girl - she was intimidated by him, he was sure, but at least she still had enough pluck to pretend otherwise.

The fourth girl emerged after her three companions and eyed him with interest. He eyed her right back, unable to help comparing dream-Amalia to the real deal. She looked a little tired, but otherwise didn't seem to have suffered the same ill effects as her roommates. Her eyes were still sharp, her skin flawless, her mouth pert with a hint of stubbornness. Her delicate nose flared slightly as she sized him up. Her thin eyebrows raised expectantly over her liquid brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes. She was waiting for him to make the first move.

He smiled his most devastating smile at her, his eyes crinkling with friendliness, and said charmingly, "Good morning, Ms Gray. I hope you're settling in well?"

Surprise registered in her face, swiftly followed by a calculated understanding. She knew exactly what he was doing.

_War has been declared_.

"Oh, very well," she said cheerfully, copying his easy tone, " _Everyone_  has made me feel so welcome." The slight inflection on the word  _everyone_  was a small jab meant especially for him.

Callidora, Anne and Charlotte seemed a little taken-aback by this normal exchange - after all, they were more used to Tom Riddle being either morosely aloof, or coldly polite. Even Rosier, gaping at this spectacle from behind Riddle, looked rather confused.

"That is good to hear." Riddle replied serenely, and fell into step with her as if they were old friends. They approached the Common Room entrance side-by-side, their friends trailing after them, speechless.

"I'd hate for anyone to make you feel uncomfortable." As the falsely-sincere words dripped off of his tongue, he chivalrously took Amalia's hand to help her through the narrow stone entranceway: to any onlooker the absolute perfect gentlemen.

Amalia, however, knew better. As soon as he'd touched her, his hand had closed like a vice around the delicate bones of her wrist, and he gripped the joint painfully, his fingers surprisingly strong as they sunk into the softer parts around the bone, hard enough to bruise. Pain shot up her arm. This violent act contrasted starkly with his earnestly friendly demeanour, and Amalia strove to keep her face similarly composed, though a muscle clenched in her jaw.

"Oh, do not concern yourself, Riddle," she said in a perfectly genial tone, maintaining a broad smile, "I assure you I can take care of myself." With that said, she stomped deliberately into his instep, the heel of her well-crafted boot sinking into his foot with a satisfying  _crunch_. Her action was hidden well as they both wear long school robes, and she was instantly rewarded by a faint hiss of pain through clenched teeth, as his smile became strained.

Out of the porthole, he dropped her wrist and stepped away to a safer distance. Amalia seethed with anger as she ponders this turn of events - she hadn't expected him to physically harm her. What kind of person does that? Did he really hate her that much? But no, she realised immediately, Riddle was merely testing the water, seeing how far he could push her. The game had only just begun.

She opened and closed her left hand experimentally, hiding the movement in the long sleeves of her robe as Callidora joined her, chattering away. She listened with half an ear as an unpleasant numbness spread from his treatment of the abused nerves of her wrist.

She snuck a glance at him as they walked in silence to the Great Hall, side-by-side. His expression was serene, unruffled.

But Amalia felt a small smirk curl the side of her mouth when she noticed that he suddenly had a very slight limp that he couldn't  _quite_  disguise.

Callidora and Anne exchanged an incredulous glance as they witnessed the spectacle before them.

Charlotte and Rosier were also watching with wide eyes, following the conversation like a tennis match. It seemed like a rather strange war was being waged over breakfast in the Great Hall that morning.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Tom with false surprise, "Did you want this last piece of bacon?"

Amalia and Tom sat opposite each other, their forks hovering over the almost-empty tureen between them, as if they were about to start fencing with their utensils.

Tension crackled like electricity between them as Amalia forced a rather scary smile. "By all means, if you want it-"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly. I know how much you've been enjoying your bacon." However blithely he said it, the jab at her enthusiastic eating was obvious to all.

Amalia glared at the offending piece of bacon between them and felt her stomach growl. "Well, if you insist-" she muttered grudgingly.

Tom's answering smirk was proof that he considered this a small victory.

But before she could claim the bacon, another fork speared the meat and fished it away.

Callidora gave a nervous laugh as both Amalia and Tom's heavy gazes fell on her, the bacon turning to ash in her mouth as her attempt to break the awkward tension back-fired. "Th-there's another bowl right over there, you know." She said weakly, pointing about half a metre down the table, where an untouched tureen of bacon sat. "There's no need to fight over food…"

Amalia put her fork and knife down neatly on her plate, and used a knapkin to wipe her mouth primly. "We should get going." She said, ignoring Callidora's words. The hall was almost empty - everyone was already heading to their first classes.

Tom hid a sigh of relief. Somehow, they'd ended up silently challenging each other to an eating competition, trying to lay a claim on each of the dishes in front of them while keeping up a polite façade. He wasn't used to eating so much in the morning - indeed, some mornings he would be so distracted as to skip meals altogether - and felt slightly nauseas. Where did she put it all? Toast, tomatoes and bacon was all very well, but three eggs  _and_  a large fruit salad as well? Was she preparing for a fast?

He laid down his utensils, and stood, stretching languidly. Rosier and Mulciber, who had joined them in the hall, rose with him.

"Are you looking forward to Charms?" he asked her.

She didn't seem able to muster a smile for him anymore, and merely kept her face neutral, though her eyes got a little brighter at the mention of her first class. "Of course."

Tom sniggered inwardly at her annoyance. She was quite competitive, it seemed, even over a piece of bacon. "You seem somewhat tense," remarked Tom genially as they left the Hall, "Is something the matter?"

Amalia looked at him sharply, noting the teasing look in his eyes. He was laughing at her, inside. For some reason, it suddenly made her want to laugh as well… Really, was she letting him get to her so easily? Over  _bacon_?  _The fun is just beginning_ , she vowed wickedly.  _You'll rue the day you declared yourself my enemy, Tom Riddle!_  She had intended to keep a low profile at school, but screw that! She had nothing to fear here. She certainly didn't fear  _him_! Perhaps there would be an opportunity during Charms…

Amalia gave him an evil glare, which contrasted sharply with her bright smile, which followed seconds later, "Oh, well," she said with an embarrassed chuckle, "We had quite a party in the dorm last night… Firewhiskey was going around."

"Amalia!" exclaimed Callidora, flushing as Tom's gaze rested on her. "He's a Prefect, you know!" she hissed. And not exactly known for leniency…

"Oh, that's right," chuckled Amalia, unperturbed. She winked cheekily at him. "Perhaps you could forgive me this time, Riddle? It was my first night at the castle, after all."

Tom's answering grin was wolfish. She was testing him again, seeing how far he would take the pretense of being her ally. It was tempting to give her a detention, just to see her reaction, but he suspected that it would play right into her hands. It would be easier for her if they were  _openly_  enemies, but that would delay  _his_  plans…

"I'll turn a blind eye this time, Ms Gray," he said smoothly. "After all, we're friends, aren't we?"

"See you in class, Riddle." Amalia said with a smile that promised trouble.

Tom felt a shiver of anticipation run up his spine as he turned and walked away, melting into the crowded corridor, pushing past the faceless masses, his mind only filled with that confident curve of her lips.

Callidora's mouth dropped open as he walked away, the crowd of students quickly separating them in the bustling halls.

"What floor are we on, Dora?" asked Amalia, glancing around.

"Fourth." She answered shortly, and then seemed to struggle with herself for a moment.

"What is it?" Amalia asked blithely, knowing perfectly well what she was thinking.

"You and Riddle!" blurted Callidora, somewhat accusingly. "What- Why is-?!"

"Do you know him?" asked Anne with a frown, cutting off Callidora's splutterings, "That is, did you know him, before school?"

"I met him a couple of days ago," shrugged Amalia, "Just like I told you last night. You must have had more Firewhiskey than I thought."

"But why's he being so nice to you?" chirped Charlotte, her face quizzical, as Callidora looked highly sceptical.

"I don't think he was being nice…" commented Anne dryly, making Charlotte even more confused. "But  _something_  is going on."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Callidora loudly, waving an arm and almost punching a passing second-year, who barely ducked in time with a squeak, "It's like he's a different person!..." she gasped suddenly, her curls bouncing with the movement, "What- do you think he  _likes_  you?" her eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets as she goggled at Amalia.

At that Amalia snorted. "Of course not," she said, chortling, "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Anne looked thoughtful, Charlotte still with her quaint expression of bewilderment, and Callidora looked about to explode with fresh dramatic theories, but fortunately Amalia noticed that they'd arrived at Charms. She spotted some students she recognised entering, so she escaped further elaboration by striding in ahead of her group.

The classroom was large and shaped somewhat like an amphitheatre, with levelled benches ringing the room facing a deep central plinth, on which stood a teacher's desk.

The back wall was lined with large blackboards covered with chalked arcane scribblings and formulas, drawing Amalia's gaze instantly. Her musing about Riddle faded, replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning new spells. Eyes shining, she took a deep breath and sighed with happiness. Her reverie was shattered by Callidora who grabbed her arm and towed her to a bench on the furthest side of the class away from Riddle. The determined and ferociously curious look in her eyes told Amalia that her interrogation was far from over.

Amalia felt mildly irritated by their interest. She wasn't accustomed to having to explain herself to others… and yet it was strangely pleasant, to have people who cared. But what was so special about Tom, anyway? Apart from the fact that he was handsome and everyone seemed either smitten or terrified of him. Was he  _very_  powerful, or was that another exaggeration of his many so-called talents? All she knew for sure was that he had a malicious streak - that much was evident by the faint bruising on her wrist - and he had turned his focus on  _her_ , for some reason. Was he merely bored, or should she be more concerned...?

"Quiet down, quiet down!" said a quavery voice from the front of the class. A crumpled-looking wizard was stooped there, peering at them all timidly with rheumy eyes. "Welcome to fifth year Charms. As you should all know by now, being seasoned students and all that… I am Professor Merrythought. However, I understand we have a new student with us…?" he peered around, blinking.

Amalia hid her discomfort as everyone turned in their seats to gaze at her. She  _felt_  rather than saw Riddle's sharp eyes on her, but resisted the urge to glance at him. She stood and curtseyed as well as her bench would allow. "Good morning, Professor Merrythought," she said quietly, "My name is Amalia Gray."

"Ah… Ms Gray." He gave a weak smile at her, "Welcome to Hogwarts, my dear. You may be seated. Do not be discouraged if there is something you do not understand. Mm… just ask, my dear, we're all friends here."

_Hmm, yes, friends_ … thought Amalia as she sat down, her eyes flickering to Riddle despite herself. He smirked at her. She rose her eyebrow at him disdainfully, feeling competitive.

"So, today I thought it may be a good idea to ease us into the new year, by reviewing all the charms of movement we've learnt thus far." He chuckled as the class groaned. Movement spells were boring and basic - each year they learnt a new spell starting from first year with  _Wingardium Leviosa_ , to more complicated forms such  _as Arresto Momentum_ ,  _Locomotor_  and so on. "Ah, don't be so quick to judge!" Professor Merrythought added, "I think you'll find even the simplest spells a little more challenging this year. Please, everyone come and collect a handful of sand from this bag." He waved his wand and a heavy-looking sack of fine, white sand appeared on his desk, "Your goal is to move the sand without losing any grains in the process. Begin!"

Benches scraped and muttering filled the air as he waved them to carry on.

"I'll get yours," offered Anne confidently, and motioned at Charlotte and Amalia to stay seated. They watched as she went to the front with Callidora and levitated a small pile of sand, drifting it back to their table without spilling any, to the approving nod of Professor Merrythought. It hovered shakily in front of them, but stayed together.

"Show-off." Teased Callidora, returning with her handful of sand. Anne just flashed her a triumphant smile and sat down with a flourish.

Amalia took a handful of sand and placed it on the desk before her, and pondered what to do with it. She knew many movement spells; it was a very common branch of magic… and whatever Merrythought said, it  _was_  boring.

She glanced at Charlotte next to her, who was staring at her sand and muttering, a light sheen of sweat already on her brow as the sand fought her control.

On her other side, Anne was confidently waving her wand, moving her sand non-verbally in jerky movements in the air in front of her.

At the end of their bench, Callidora was laughing as she waved her wand enthusiastically, spraying the back of the neck of the disgruntled Hufflepuff girl seated in front of her.

Lastly, Amalia glanced across the room and found Tom. He looked as bored as she felt, resting his chin on his hand with his elbow on the table, as he lazily flicked his wand. His sand danced effortlessly in the air above him, forming geometric shapes in a mesmerizing display of skill. Professor Merrythought and half of the class watched with wide, admiring eyes in a hushed silence.

Amalia analysed his movements expertly, and wasn't disappointed.  _You're good_ , she admitted to herself, somewhat grudgingly,  _Better than good, actually_ … She rolled her eyes at her own admiring monologue and pushed up her sleeves briskly. She wasn't about to join the Tom Riddle Fanclub because he could make pretty shapes out of sand! She muttered an incantation and waved her wand in a complicated series of movements.

A miniature cyclone formed where her sand had lain, and then it began to take form. A shape sprang into being - quite literally sprang, since it had four paws and a delicately waving tail - and stretched languidly in midair.

Her friends and the students sitting nearest were the first to see white sand-cat pacing in the air in front of them. Anne and Charlotte looked amazed and delighted, while Callidora lost control of her sand, dumping it on the unfortunate Hufflepuff's head altogether in favour of clapping enthusiastically.

Tom looked up at the commotion happening across the class, and narrowed his eyes as he saw Amalia at the centre of it. What had she done now? He looked around and followed the rest of the classes wide gazes to… the air above him.

He blinked as he took in the white cat currently playing with his geometric shapes, batting the squares and spheres like balls of string. The girls of the class squealed and awe-ed as the cat playfully rolled around, imitating a living cat very realistically.

He glanced at Amalia and saw her quiet smile as she focused on controlling the little sand-creature far above them all.

He flicked his wand and felt his magic leap to obey.

Students gasped as suddenly the geometric shapes reformed into a nest of spikes, pointing directly at the cute white cat, who rolled back onto its feet and crouched watchfully, its tail swishing back and forth, as if it was ready to pounce.

Another flick of his wand and the spikes shot forward, skewering the cat forcibly in a spray of sand. But Amalia wasn't finished, and leapt to her feet with a wolfish smile, her bench scraping the stone-flagged floor in the sudden hush, and waved her wand in response.

Her cat reformed, in a miniature cyclone of sand that swept up all the stray grains, but there was something different. The cat now looked bigger, somehow even lionish, and Tom felt a twinge of annoyance as he realised she'd stolen some of his sand to reform her animal. He stood up too, his bench scraping the floor and waved his wand, gathering the rest of his remaining sand to form a glittering array of miniature weapons, such as a butcher's cleaver which flashed out suddenly and severed the lion-cat's tail, stealing back that amount of sand.

The cat whipped around and batted the cleaver away, shrinking slightly as its tail regrew, then dodged Tom's next attack with a spear, somersaulting flexibly away and landing on its feet in midair.

The class "oohed" and "ahhed" as the cat was chased around the ceiling by a selection of Tom's sand-swords for several minutes, neither side giving ground in a breath-taking display of skill.

When at last the swords seemed destined to behead the cat, it shifted into a form with large bat-like wings at the last possible second, and they flapped strongly. The solidified sand created a wind which dissolved Tom's swords momentarily, but then he replaced them with a creature of his own - a sand-serpent uncoiling in the air directly around the bat-creature, which turned back into a cat and clawed and bit at the tightening coils.

The serpent and the cat fought viciously, rolling around in the air above the class, until eventually the two animals had become so entwined it was impossible to see where the snake began and the cat ended. The sand mingling, Amalia and Tom's magic now vied for dominance, and with a muffled  _thump_  as the shape exploded into individual grains again. They froze, drifting in a glittering heat-haze above the class as Tom and Amalia fought for control, neither willing to give up the sand they felt they'd won.

"Ah, well done, students, but perhaps we should stop there-" Merrythought's uncertain voice was ignored as Tom waved his wand violently, annoyed at Amalia's dogged persistence.

There was a clap like thunder and a bright flash of light which made everyone except Amalia and Tom duck and flinch away as a faint smell of brimstone filled the room.

Slightly blinded, Amalia blinked spots from her eyes as the loud noise faded. Where their cloud of sand had been there was just two equally-sized anomalous globules of blackened, molten sand, floating in the air like glassy bubbles.

She chuckled and coaxed one of the globules towards her, reforming it into her cat again. It was much smaller - just big enough to fit on her palm, like a blown-glass figurine, black and shiny as night. It was quite cool to touch. She looked up from her prize and met Tom's dark eyes, which were gazing at her intensely with something akin to hunger. She inclined her head in the approximation of a bow, watching as his eyes widened in surprise at her formal gesture, which didn't seem to be mocking… but rather… respectful…?

He blinked and returned his glass back to sand, dumping the purified white grains back into the sack on the teacher's desk below. As he looked away from her and took his seat he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the smattering of applause that their display had earned them.

Tom passed the rest of the class in a pensive mood, reviewing what he'd learnt of Amalia so far. She seemed likewise quiet, smiling absently at her friends' excited chatter, but not really returning the same enthusiasm. Three times their eyes briefly met across the class, and Tom saw his own guarded, contemplative expression mirrored in her eyes as her black cat figurine preened itself on her desk.

The next class was history, and Tom found the ghost and teacher Professor Binns to be as boring as ever before. Even though it was the first class of a new year, the teacher made no special effort but simply started droning on about goblin wars. Most students in the class instantly got glazed-over expressions and slept on their arms, but Tom kept focus and took notes as well as he could, despite the tedium. He had to keep up appearances, after all. Beside him, Rosier stifled a yawn and dutifully jotted down the occasional note as well. Out of all the Slytherin boys in Tom's little group, Rosier was the only one who made any effort in class.

One row in front of him, Tom could watch the back of Amalia's head as she and Anne Flint had a whispered conversation, while listening to Binns with half an ear and taking notes every now and then.

He wondered what they were talking about. His fingers twitched, itching to take out his wand - he knew a good eavesdropping spell that would take their whispers right to his ear - but he hesitated. Amalia was a strong witch of unknown capabilities. It was possible – no, likely, given her paranoia – that she had some charm up her sleeve to detect spells of that nature.

He tried to curb his impatience as Binns' gaze fell on them and the girls stopped whispering. It probably wasn't important anyway. He then spent the rest of the class watching her take notes in messy handwriting, and doodle a small sketch of a black cat in the corner of her page. At the end of the class, they all groaned as Binns assigned them a monstrous essay due in one week on fifteenth century goblin raids.

As the class filed out, Professor Binns turned and blinked owlishly in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir,"Amalia said politely, "I have a question."

"Ce-certainly." He said faintly. He didn't think this had ever happened before.

"You were talking about Zirza the Cruel, the goblin general who sacked parts of northern Italy…?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, I read that he took many priceless artefacts from Rome, and then claimed they were goblin-made. However, in another book it says something completely different."

"Ah, yes," Binns said, a flicker of enthusiasm entering his dull eyes, "It depends on the  _source_  you consult. That's precisely what I was getting at… history is not as fixed and… boring… as most think. In certain  _wizard-approved_  manuscripts the story clearly places Zirza as a tyrannical invader, a ruthless thief and liar. But read a text penned by goblin historians (rarer, yet no less valid) and he is painted as the avenging saviour, retrieving stolen artefacts that were once thought lost."

Amalia frowned, a crease appearing between her eyes, "But then, which is true?"

He nodded sagely. "That, my dear, is the real question, isn't it?"

Understanding lit up her eyes. "Is that why you set the essay?"

"Indeed."

"But one version of history is  _wrong_." She argued. "It's not what happened."

"What happened in the past does not affect our future." He said dismissively.

She blinked at him, confused. "How can you say that?" she demanded, "My past made me-" she stopped abruptly, flushing as she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

Binns shook his head slowly, pondering her strange words. "No. Your  _perception_  of the past controls your present. Do not misunderstand. Think of the present moment as the only fixed point. The past and future only exist in your imagination. Rather than the past, it's our  _understanding_  of the past, our  _memories_ … that is what informs our decisions and affects our actions. And memories are not always truthful." Binns said sombrely. "Therefore, history is always subjective. A discussion, an argument..." His eyes were kind. "Our past is a mystery only we can solve and interpret, ourselves."

She suddenly seemed miles away. "What if I can't solve it?" she said, in a small voice.

Binns gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed, and said, "If you are interested in the truth, there are ways to find it. You must learn to be think like a detective, working logically to find the truth."

"I tried… but it isn't easy." Her eyes refocussed on him. "The truth is important to me."

He nodded. "Then, a good place to start practicing is this book, which you can find in the library…Here, write this down-"

The next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the rest of the class was already seated by the time Amalia wandered in with an absent-minded expression.

She seemed to shake herself out of it when she realised the class and the teacher was looking at her, askance.

"You're late, Miss…?"

"Uh, Gray." supplied Amalia, rallying herself. She took one look at the skinny grey-haired woman with her sour expression and beady eyes and decided she didn't like her. She stood a little straighter and said composedly. "I apologise, Professor…?"

"I am Professor Fairchilde."

Amalia made a peculiar sound that she managed to turn into a cough. "A-ahem! I apologise, Professor…  _Fairchilde_. I'm afraid I got lost."

The skinny woman's mouth pulled tight in annoyance at Amalia's less than respectful tone, and her nostrils flared as if she smelt trouble already. But she said nothing of it, replying curtly, "That's understandable, given it is your first day. Please, take a seat. Note that tardiness in future will not be tolerated."

Amalia gave her a sweet – yet oddly poisonous-looking – smile, and took her seat between Anne and Callidora.

"Now, turn to page 10 of your textbooks, and we'll start with –"

"How could you get lost?" hissed Callidora in Amalia's ear. "We're in the same corridor. Didn't you see the door I pointed out to you?"

Amalia looked a little embarrassed. "Haha, well, my sense of direction is really not a strength of mine, and all the doors look the same…"

Callidora tsked and turned away, but felt secretly relieved that there was at least  _one_  thing Amalia was not good at.

"What did you ask Binns?" asked Anne out of the corner of her mouth, pretending to study her textbook as the skinny professor swept by them.

Amalia waited until Professor Fairchilde was preoccupied demanding why a Hufflepuff girl in the front row had sand in her hair, before replying, "A question on history, and the philosophical basis of memory and truth." she said, "It was very interesting. He recommended a book. Perhaps after the next class-"

There was a light chuckle from behind them, and glancing back Amalia came face-to-face with Tom, who somehow seemed to have ended up right behind her. "You have got to be the first student in the history of Hogwarts to actually enjoy History." He said dryly.

Amalia felt a shiver of excitement at the intensity with which he gazed at her, but hid it well and shrugged. "I'll admit his voice is rather boring, but the content is interesting, at least."

"And how is that?" Tom was sceptical, and seemed eager to hear her opinion.

"It's important to know what came before." Amalia argued, "To know where you came from… Your past is-"

"Miss Gray!" came the reedy voice of Professor Fairchilde, "Just because you are a new student doesn't mean you don't have to pay attention!"

Amalia's eyes widened as Tom smirked at her lazily. He was trying to get her into trouble! She turned slowly in her chair to face the front again, forcing a contrite expression.

The woman stalked forward. "I would have thought you would be more interested in concentrating on catching up with the rest of the class, since you are a new student."

Callidora exchanged rueful looks with Anne. If she had known what had happened in Charms…!

Amalia raised one thin eyebrow, meeting the woman's eyes directly. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is not a subject I'm worried about." She stated bluntly. Internally, she cursed her short temper. This was no way to speak to a teacher! But she couldn't help herself when people spoke to her like that.

Professor Fairchilde folded her arms, drawing herself up. "Is that so?"

The rest of the class waited with bated breath.

"Then, Ms Gray, could you tell me the proper defence of the Deprimo Fundus jinx?"

Amalia didn't bat an eye at the abrupt question. "Deprimo Fundus causes the ground to vanish beneath your feet, and is therefore somewhat more difficult to block." She started, speaking normally in a slightly bored tone. "A Land-locking charm would counter-act the effect, or a mid-level Seraph's Orb barrier would block it."

The professor looked both surprised and annoyed at this textbook answer.

But Amalia wasn't finished yet. "However," she said next, "In actuality the best defence is often offence. As the wand movement for Deprimo Fundus is rather obvious and the incantation long, a simple Stupefy would reach your opponent long before he or she vanished the ground under your feet. Which is way it isn't a spell commonly used in duels, and I question the relevancy of its status as a 'Dark Arts' jinx."

"You seem to have many opinions on this, Ms Gray." Gritted out Professor Fairchilde, scowling. "You should bear in mind that this syllabus was designed by witches and wizards older and more experienced than you."

"Nevertheless, there are plenty of Dark curses out there that aren't covered by the textbook-"

"We are not here to learn about Dark curses, Ms Gray!"

Amalia looked equally annoyed, "Then how are we expected to defend against them?" she demanded, and tacked on a hasty, "Professor?"

"By studying the theory, and practising defensive spells that can be employed in a variety of instances!"

Amalia sighed. "I noticed that duelling is not listed as a part of our syllabus." She stated.

"Certainly not!" steamed Professor Fairchilde, "And I have no idea why a young lady such as yourself takes such an interest in violence and combat! The Dark Arts are forbidden by law- we're not about to practice it in a classroom!"

Amalia held her tongue with difficulty. She shouldn't get into trouble with her teachers on her first day! Even though it was ludicrous that Hogwarts didn't take this subject more seriously. Didn't they know how dangerous the real world was?!

Professor Fairchilde seemed smug when she realised Amalia had stopped arguing. "Now," she said in a calmer tone, "Seeing as you have so many opinions on the matter, why don't you write me an essay on  _merits_  of this year's syllabus, over other,  _cruder_  methods of learning."

Amalia glared at her. "As you wish, Professor." She said coldly.

Satisfied she'd won this round, Professor Fairchilde turned back to the class and nodded briskly, "Then, let us return to more important matters. Will everyone please turn to page ten…"

The last class of the day was Transfiguration, and Tom didn't look forward to it. It was his least favourite class, for the simple fact that it was taught by Dumbledore.

The work was not difficult – to be absolutely fair, the old man wasn't a  _completely_  inept teacher - but Tom found himself unwilling to listen too intently to the old man, or even perform at his usual level of brilliance, simply because he didn't want to attract his attention , specifically those accursed  _patronising_  blue eyes of his. As if he could grasp even an iota of what Tom was thinking!

Transfiguration was directly after lunch, and Tom used the time in the Great Hall to observe Amalia. She was surrounded by her three friends, and most of Tom's group too, the boys having the first chance to talk to her after her escapades in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts.

He'd found himself surprised by her vehement argument with the skinny old crow, ironically named Professor Fairchilde – he actually agreed with most of what Amalia had said. Dark Arts were not theoretical, and he'd been similarly exasperated when he'd discovered that it wouldn't be taught in any practical sense at Hogwarts. Of course, unlike Amalia, he was not interested in it in an academic or defensive sense… But he agreed that the syllabus was lacking. The only way he knew practical duelling magic was through his own studies, and he knew for a fact that none of his classmates could match his skill. But what about Amalia? Did she have experience in actual duels? It was always a regret of his that he couldn't often practise duelling himself - he'd taught his followers some basic dark magic, but even then they were no match for him. His mind went to the dream he'd had, and he imagined the anticipation of facing her in a real duel. In Charms he reluctantly conceded that they'd been evenly matched. But that was hardly a real test…

His mind was buzzing with plans and schemes as he walked to Transfiguration. Entering the class, he saw the four Slytherin girls moving to the front of the class, and grimaced. There was no way he was sitting anywhere near Dumbledore. He would sit in his usual spot, at the back of the class near the door.

"Rosier." He commanded imperiously.

"Yes, Riddle?" said his ever-present shadow instantly. Riddle looked at him for a moment coldly. Rosier was quiet and unassuming, but out of his group he was the just about the only one with the brains to be discreet. "Sit there, and tell me if she says anything interesting." It was obvious who 'she' was. Rosier nodded obediently and walked to the front of the class, sitting next to Amalia without any hesitation, though there was a flicker in his eyes which might have been irritation as he did so.

Amalia turned with surprise to see the slight, fair-haired boy slide into the bench next to her.

"Rosier," she greeted with a friendly smile, though she was a little bemused. He hadn't seemed interested at all in her during lunch - in fact, he'd been the only other boy besides Riddle not to bombard her with questions and comments…

"I just wanted to say that I agree with you - about Defence Against the Dark Arts." He said, with a quiet smile. But Amalia's friendly expression slipped as she realised his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

She glanced around the class, and a lightbulb went on when she saw Riddle sitting at the back of the class. She lowered her voice and leaned in close. "Ah, I see." She said slyly, "Riddle sent you over here, didn't he?" she chuckled at his frozen expression.

Rosier realised that a denial was pointless. He straightened up and suddenly looked serious. "He seems interested in you." He stated bluntly, his pale blue eyes glancing sideways at her.

"Well, you and I both know that attracting his interest might not be a  _good_  thing."

Rosier's eyes widened. So she knew about that side of Riddle, too? He'd never encountered a girl that wasn't instantly smitten with him. "Why do you say that?" he said, stalling as he considered this new information. He'd thought she liked him, and was trying to get his attention… were they truly enemies, then? For some reason that made him happy.

Amalia shrugged. "It's just that, out of all Riddle's friends, you seemed closest to him."

Her casual observation elicited a surprising and extremely interesting response. The colour in his cheeks rose a little at her words. "Riddle doesn't have friends." He muttered, feeling flustered.

Amalia was silent for a long moment, watching him with sharp eyes like she'd just figured something out. "Rosier," she said at last, "Are you in l-"

"Good afternoon, fifth years!" came a familiar voice, as Dumbledore, clothed in bright orange robes strode in, beaming at them.

"Afternoon, Professor!" greeted a tall Gryffindor, prompting a few other students to echo him. It seemed Dumbledore was a rather popular teacher.

Amalia leaned away from Rosier, who'd gone a little pale at her words, and faced the front, eager for the lesson to begin.

"I trust you've all had satisfactorily long and lazy summers, and have sufficiently emptied your heads in preparation for this year?"

In the back row, Tom moodily burnt a hole in his desk with the tip of his wand. He didn't want to be reminded of his summer.

"This year is O.W.L.s year, and I'm sure you've all heard the horror stories of the upcoming exams in June. Yes, it will be hard work and we have a lot to cover, but if you're diligent and stay on top of things - I'm looking at you, Longbottom -" the tall Gryffindor boy who'd spoken before gave a theatrical groan, causing a few titters from the class, "Then you should have nothing to worry about."

Dumbledore walked to the board and tapped it briskly, causing it to float down and display a complicated-looking diagram of arrows and shapes. "So, without further ado, let's dive in. Don't be alarmed! This is just a glimpse of what we'll be learning in the time up to Christmas, by which point you will be able to Vanish and Rematerialise objects using a variety of spells for specific instances." Amalia sat a little straighter. She knew a vanishing spell that worked most of the time, but didn't work on large objects. Finally, something new to learn!

"For today, we'll speak about Muncheon's Third Theorem of displacement magic, and you can all attempt to vanish a matchstick. Those of you who succeed can try larger objects until we find your respective levels." His twinkling blue eyes seemed to rest on Amalia for a moment knowlingly as he said it.

By the end of the lesson, Amalia, Tom, Anne and a sallow-skinned Ravenclaw had progressed to vanishing teacups. Amalia guessed that Tom was holding back, and could probably do more, but he didn't seem willing to volunteer, and perhaps more surprisingly, Amalia noticed Dumbledore seemed equally satisfied with ignoring his best student. He even went so far as to give Amalia, Anne and the Ravenclaw girl five house points each for good effort, while Tom sat silently at the back of the class, scowling.

Amalia liked Dumbledore, but was it really okay for a teacher to be so biased?

As the bell chimed the end of the lesson, the students rose and started leaving the class, but Dumbledore waved Amalia over.

"Would you mind delaying a short while to have a chat with me, Ms Gray?" he asked with a smile.

She shrugged, and waved her friends to leave without her. "Sure, Professor." The class emptied quickly, and Amalia perched herself on one of the front desks, her legs swinging. "What did you want to talk about?"

"How was your first day? Are you finding Hogwarts a suitable home?" his genuine concern was strangely touching. Amalia wasn't used to having people worry over her well-being.

She gave a serious answer. "Yes." She said simply, "I think… I think I can be happy here." It was only after saying it out loud that she felt a great weight of tension lifting off her shoulders.

"That's good to hear." Dumbledore beamed, "I knew you would do well. Professor Merrythought was quite beside himself singing your praises this morning in the staff room."

"Ah, really…" Amalia flushed slightly with pleasure. After her argument with Professor Fairchilde she'd almost forgotten her antics in Charms.

Dumbledore's smile faded. "Hm. Though from the sound of things, it seems you were involved in some kind of competition with Tom?"

Amalia pondered his changed expression. "That's right." She admitted easily, "We seem to have become rivals of some kind. I know you wanted us to be friends-"

Dumbledore twirled his wand between his fingers with a rueful expression, "Actually, I did not expect Tom to take any real interest in you at all."

Amalia cocked her head. "Are you… Worried, that he has?"  _is this another person who knows Tom's real face? And if so, why did he introduce us in the first place?_

Dumbledore paused before replying. "I'll be honest with you. I didn't think you'd end up in Slytherin."

Amalia blinked at this unexpected confession. "You… thought I'd be in Gryffindor?" she guessed shrewdly. The Sorting Hat had considered it.

He nodded. "You possess many of the qualities my house prizes. Bravery, confidence, a certain disregard for authority, if I'm to believe Professor Fairchilde-" he chuckled.

"What's wrong with Slytherin?" she couldn't help a hint of coldness entering her voice, which Dumbledore noticed. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Nothing, of course… I was just surprised." He sighed. "I am glad you seem to be fitting in well. But if you can heed an old man's advice…  _stay away_  from Tom Riddle. You've made friends with Ms Black, Flint and Yaxley. You don't need Tom's friendship."

Amalia knew that he wasn't wrong - Riddle was dangerous - but all the same, she felt a stab of annoyance. Had he just  _decided_  Tom Riddle was a bad egg? People can change! And what was with a teacher advising a new student to stay away from another? It left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I don't think I can." She said coolly, raising her eyebrow disdainfully (it really was a favoured expression of hers).

Dumbledore blinked. "Oh?"

"Mm. You see," Amalia explained, "Tomorrow is Potions, and if I recall correctly  _you_  were the one to suggest that he can help me." She inspected her fingernails. "I'm really useless at Potions. Even if we don't get on, I plan on using him to get an Exceeds Expectations O.W.L."

Dumbledore sighed again, taking in her determined expression. "Alright, as you wish," he said, admitting defeat, "But do take care of yourself. I'm always here if you need to talk."

Recognising her dismissal, Amalia nodded politely and took her bag, exiting the classroom. She had a lot to think about.

For some reason, Dumbledore's words kept coming back to her.

_You don't need Tom's friendship._

That was probably true. And what about him? Didn't he need friends? Although, given his treatment of her... she absent-mindedly massaged her wrist - it was laughable to consider getting close to him. Rosier was right - Tom didn't have friends.

And yet, if she was completely honest, she felt as if they already had a bond of some kind. A bond of animosity, perhaps, but a bond all the same. She couldn't help it that when he was in the room, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, of danger… it was  _exciting_. She'd lived with danger and anxiety for a long time now, a hunted animal always looking over her shoulder for a faceless enemy. Tom had declared war on her openly, and an enemy she could face did not scare her. In a way, it was oddly reassuring, like he'd acknowledged her worthiness as an opponent.

Here at Hogwarts she was no longer alone, and yet she still stood apart from Callidora and the others. Everyone was safe, everyone was normal… except Tom. Just like her, he was  _different_.

And  _different_  was interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story in the Harry Potter universe is not complete without a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor that we intensely dislike!  
> Amalia seems to regard her past as very important, even if she refuses to talk about it… what could possibly have happened to her? The mystery continues.
> 
> I apologise in advance for my creative license with Rowling's work… in her universe, Dumbledore doesn't have half-moon glasses, the Slytherin common room is actually under the Lake, and I'm sure there are many other inconsistencies. J. K. Rowling's world is massive and though I have read all the books several times and watched the movies, I'm not perfect. What's more, in the interests of originality, I'm writing from my own imagination, which may differ from the explicit descriptions in the books/movies. But I'll try to keep the changes to minor details.


	4. A Mystery

Amalia was feeling mischievous.

It had taken her longer than expected to find her way to the Great Hall after her talk with Dumbledore, and during the journey she'd thought a lot – about Tom, mostly. So much about him was a mystery – what was his true face? What were his motives? Why did Dumbledore warn her away from him, while many others thought the sun shone out of his every orifice?

In the Great Hall she decided to keep up their charade of being friends and sat next to him without a word. Although this time Tom hadn't initiated it, he greeted her with an impeccable smile nevertheless.

Inside, however, Tom felt a spike of annoyance. She'd just plonked herself down next to him (much to Callidora, Anne and Charlotte's incredulity – they were sitting among the other Slytherin girls) even going so far as to get Rosier to move up to make space. Though Rosier was hardly pleased at having his place taken, he acquiesced once he saw Riddle's terse nod, hidden beneath a pleasant smile as she sat down gracefully.

Her arrival also didn't go unnoticed by the other boys.

"Where were you, Amalia?" asked Avery in his usual obnoxious way.

Not to be left out, Dolohov also leaned forward, his brown hair falling in his eyes, "Yeah, you missed the start of the feast." He flicked his hair out of his face in what he hoped was a cool and alluring manner. He glanced at Tom, who was looking away with a bored expression, and breathed an internal sigh of relief. After their antics in class, he'd been half-convinced that Tom had lied the previous night when he'd said he wasn't interested in Amalia in _that_ way… but it seemed he really didn't care after all. It was obvious that he had some kind of agenda, though, and for that Dolohov felt sorry for her. She seemed nice.

Amalia was already digging into a loaded plate. In between enormous bites, she shrugged and said, "Got lost on my way back from Transfiguration." She poured herself some pumpkin juice and chugged it down, and then sighed in satisfaction. "My internal compass is very unreliable," she explained, pulling a face.

At her words she saw Tom turn to gaze at her in his quietly intense way, though she initially ignored him. What was he thinking? That it was a weakness he could exploit? She smirked slightly as she tucked into her roast potatoes – he must be desperate. But he still said nothing, even though he was clearly burning with curiosity about something. She could tell by the way his body language had gone all stiff. Or was it because she was sitting too close? She reached for a bowl of greens and shifted infinitesimally closer, so that their legs _just_ brushed.

She saw his fork pause on its way to his mouth, and the smallest of micro-expressions contracted his brow as she glanced at him. _He doesn't like being touched_. She realised with wicked delight. _Well, well, Tom Riddle. Now_ that's _a weakness that can be used._

Filing that away for future use, she put down her knife and fork and sat back, looking openly at him. He returned her gaze coolly. She idly wondered what kind of expression he'd make if she messed up his perfectly groomed jet black hair. But she wasn't quite brave enough for that… yet.

"If you want to ask me something, just go ahead." She told him in a normal tone. In the loud hall, no one heard them except Rosier, quietly eating on her other side.

"I don't have anything to ask." He said smoothly back, and looked resolutely back to his plate, slicing his steak with unhurried precision.

Amalia stifled a chuckle. _He's childish_ , she realised. She noticed his eyes flick out over the hall, and linger on Dumbledore, who was seated at the teacher's table next to Dippet, and then when Riddle looked back at his plate, he stabbed a potato with a little more force than was actually necessary.

"You really hate him, don't you?" Amalia commented. "Dumbledore?"

Riddle kept his face blank. She was far too observant for her own good! Although to be fair it was hardly a secret…

"What do _you_ think about him?" broke in Rosier, interrupting Amalia's scrutiny of Tom's expression. She turned away and Tom felt annoyed that he hadn't answered immediately with some kind of denial or off-hand confirmation.

"Me?" Amalia seemed to take the question seriously, and thought carefully about her answer. "I think he's a good person. A great wizard. But…" for some reason her eyes flickered back to Riddle as she paused, "He has flaws just like anyone else."

Rosier felt annoyed. Why couldn't she ever give a normal answer? He saw Tom's eyes afire with questions, and Amalia turned back to him as if she felt the curiosity burning off of him like a heat.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Riddle," she said with an amused chuckle, "If you have a question, just spit it out."

Riddle felt like cursing her on the spot for her impudence – she'd actually laughed at him – but curiosity won out in the end, and he just settled for an icy stare to show his displeasure. "What did you talk to him about, after class?" he asked at last, stiffly.

Amalia grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You."

_ What _ . Riddle fought to keep his face from showing his emotions, but it was difficult, and by her widening smile he could tell it didn't fool her.

"What do you mean?" Once again, it was Rosier who saved him from replying, though suddenly Tom wished he wasn't in the conversation. _Dumbledore had mentioned him? Why? What did he say? Was Amalia lying? Why would-_

"Well, we didn't _just_ talk about Riddle, of course," Amalia amended, keeping her tone light and casual, "He wanted to know how I was doing and so on, too."

Tom found his voice again. "So," he drawled, as if the subject bored him, "How was my name brought up?" his finger idly traced the rim of his goblet.

Amalia paused. Then, she winked at Rosier, and leaned very slowly and deliberately onto Riddle's shoulder, bringing her lips right to his ear. Predictably, he froze, uncomfortable with the proximity, and the rest of the group suddenly went quiet, dumbstruck at the sight of their seeming intimacy. But though they stared, Amalia whispered quietly enough so that only Tom could hear.

" _He wanted me to stay away from you_." She breathed.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and Tom's eyes suddenly went black. For a moment his hand tightened on his fork and knife, his already pale, long fingers turning white. He was angry… but at her or Dumbledore, or possibly both, Amalia couldn't tell. He turned his dark gaze on her, and the sheer weight of the malice in his eyes sent a shiver up her spine. Their faces were so close, and her heart sped up, but whether it was from adrenaline or something else she couldn't be sure. His magic was so oppressive it seemed harder to breathe. It was like being eye-to-eye with venomous snake. His obsidian eyes didn't blink. "And what was your reply? Tell me." he said, and though he kept his words deadly quiet, the authority in his voice was unmistakable. It was a demand, not a question.

She forced herself to grin, even though she started to break out in a cold sweat, and leaned in even closer, drawing it out while her warm breath lightly tickled his ear, "… _I refused_."

Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that was the least expected, and the surprise stripped away his anger at Dumbledore, and even erased the discomfort he felt at her hand resting on his shoulder. His oppressive magic lifted, replaced by suspicion. _Had she really said that? Did she mean it? ... Why?_

He opened his mouth to question her further, but her attention was suddenly elsewhere- dessert had arrived. At the arrival of food, the mission "torment Tom Riddle" seemed to be postponed in favour of apple pie and whipped cream, and for that Tom was secretly quite glad. He had plenty of questions for her, but this behaviour was infuriating. He would have to move his plans along faster than he'd anticipated…

"What was that about?" Avery suddenly blurted out, frowning, _actually frowning_ , at Tom! He felt his fingers twitch with the intent to curse the stupid boy into oblivion. It had been obvious that Amalia was trying to make them jealous, and it angered him that it seemed to have succeeded so easily. Only Rosier seemed to have caught on, since he was looking irritated at Amalia, and Lestrange seemed oblivious to everything, mostly because he was preoccupied with singlehandedly devouring a trifle.

Amalia winked at Tom as if they shared a private joke. "Oh," she said with a bashful smile, "You'd have to ask Riddle."

Dolohov, Avery, Mulciber and Nott looked at the coldly glowering Riddle and traded dismayed glances. There was no way they'd ever find out.

She got up and waved a cheerful goodbye, trotting off to meet her friends who had just finished and were waiting for her at the entrance to the Great Hall.

She was aware of Tom's eyes following her, frustrated, but didn't notice another – a pair of blue eyes behind half-moon glasses which had thoughtfully watched the entire drama at the Slytherin table unfold.

_ Outside the Great Hall… _

"You have to spill, now!" Callidora's voice brooked no argument.

Amalia raised her hands in a gesture of peace. "Okay, okay. But let's not talk here." Students were coming out of the Hall in droves already.

"Common Room?" chipped in Charlotte hopefully. She looked tired, and her pixie-like face split into a child-like yawn.

Amalia looked apologetic. "I'd love to see the library."

"Good idea." Anne said enthusiastically. "We can start our essays."

Charlotte yawned again and shrugged. "I'll see you guys later, then." She headed off in the direction of the Common Room.

"Ugh, the _library_ ," Callidora groaned, but grabbed Amalia and started marching her there anyway. She was keen to gossip. "Try and remember this route, Amalia." She said bossily. "So you don't get lost again."

Amalia nodded, her wide eyes drinking in the moving portraits and staircases. It would take a long time to get used to the castle, she could tell. Perhaps she should draw a map…?

The library was amazing. It was the most amazing room in the castle, in her opinion. The sheer volume of books, the endless possibilities hinted at by their intriguing shapes and sizes… she knew at last beyond a doubt that she'd made the right decision in coming to Hogwarts.

But her amazement was briefly put on hold, when Callidora dragged her over to a wide table next to a large bay window. The heavy fabric of dark satin curtains that hung on either side made the corner seem more private, and Amalia was under the impression this was their regular library haunt. This suspicion was confirmed when she saw an ornate "C.B." scratched into the leg of the table – casual vandalism of school property was seemed to fit Callidora's character.

As Anne started packing out her homework and essay-writing materials, Callidora commenced the interrogation.

"Let's start at the beginning. Charms – what the heck was that? Where did you learn such awesome magic?"

Amalia shrugged, "Books, mainly." She tried to sound nonchalant, not evasive, but she could tell Callidora was not completely convinced.

"Uh huh. Sure. Why a cat?"

Amalia grinned as she remembered, and reached into her bag, pulling out the black, blown-glass figure. "I'm a cat person." The remnants of the movement charm she'd cast on it hadn't worn off yet, and the figurine preened itself daintily on the tabletop. She wondered if the spell Tom had cast to create the glass hadn't somehow charged the molten sand, changing the spell and strengthening it. Perhaps there was a book somewhere that she could-

"Earth to Amalia!" Callidora snapped her fingers bossily in her face, jolting her out of her reverie. Her gaze, which had been drifting towards the bookshelves, reluctantly returned to Callidora's stubborn face. "I'm not finished yet. How come you and Riddle ended up putting on the bloody Charms Olympics in front of everyone, anyway?"

"I wanted to see what he'd do."

"So, you _are_ trying to get his attention, then?" surmised Callidora, waggling her eyebrows somewhat suggestively.

Amalia snorted and shook her head. "No, nothing like that, of course." She sounded exasperated by the insinuation. "I just wanted to see whether he could keep up with me."

"You got it wrong, there," Anne said in her quiet way, without looking up from her essay, "Riddle's the most gifted student at this school. He was holding back."

Amalia nodded. "I thought as much." But _she_ hadn't exactly gone all out, either…

Though it had been a close thing, and she doubted most students noticed, Riddle had just _slightly_ edged her out at the end. If Anne was right, that meant he was powerful indeed.

"Anyway," continued Callidora, interrupting her thoughts, "Why did you sit next to him at dinner? I saw you talking."

Amalia sighed and folded her arms. "If you must know," she said somewhat irritably, "I was drawing battlelines."

"… Battlelines?"

"Yes, Dora. I think he's an arrogant git who needs to be taken down a peg."

Dora blinked. "Oh. But it certainly _seems_ like you like him-"

"Well, I don't." Amalia snapped.

Callidora was deflated for only a second before rallying again. "Love is only one step away from hate, you know-"

Amalia stood up. "A good thing I don't hate him, then." She paused, "Yet. Now, if you'll excuse me… I have some reading to do." And she marched off.

"Just leave her be, Dora," said Anne, idly flipping a page of a book. "She said she doesn't like him."

Callidora scowled at Amalia's back before it disappeared around a corner. "That's what they all say…" she muttered.

Amalia browsed the shelves in a slight trance, brushing her fingertips lightly across the ribbed spines almost reverently. At times she thought she heard faint voices whispering, as if the very books themselves were entreating her to open them and delve into the secrets held inside.

Very soon, Amalia was levitating a large pile of books to float behind her as she wandered deeper into the library. After about twenty minutes, she remembered Professor Binns' recommendation and took out the small scrap of paper she'd written it on.

_ Maudlin's Mysteries of Magicke _ it was called, by Maximus Maudlin. She had no clue how the sorting system in the library worked, so she approached a rather pudgy-looking woman behind the large librarian's desk.

"Good evening," she greeted politely, "I'm looking for this book…?"

The woman stifled a yawn, and tapped a cabinet behind her with her wand.

A card shot out of it and landed in her hand, and she squinted at it with a bored expression. "Oh, it's on special reserve." She informed Amalia, and yawned again. "Arghh- 'scuse me- that just means you can't take it out of the library." She indicated the shelves nearest the librarian's desk. "Third row, top shelf. Return it to me when you're done."

"Thanks."

Amalia hurried off, wondering why a book like that would be put on reserve. The only reason she could think of was that it was valuable in some way, or perhaps simply fragile.

Despite having directions, it took her a good ten minutes to locate the peeling spine of the volume. She made a triumphant noise and waved her wand, causing the book to leap out of the shelf and soar towards her hand. However, it was intercepted by another before she could catch it.

Amalia whipped around, half expecting it to be Riddle, but then blinked.

"Oh, it's only you."

Rosier seemed annoyed at her slightly disappointed tone.

"This seems like an odd book to choose on your first day in the library." He eyed the peeling gold title on the black leather cover with fake interest.

Amalia tugged it out of his hands. "Spying for Riddle again, are you?"

He scowled. "No, actually, I wanted to speak to you myself."

"Oh." She looked at him with more interest. "What's up?"

Rosier folded his arms and looked down his nose at her. This was an impressive feat, since they were roughly the same height. "I'm only going to say this once." He said haughtily. "Stay away from Riddle."

Amalia raised an incredulous eyebrow, and then snorted with laughter.

Rosier flushed, and scowled. "What's so funny?" he snapped.

She smiled. "It's just… you're not the first one to say that today."

Rosier narrowed his eyes at her. "I mean it. You won't talk to him, you won't put on another display like in the Great Hall earlier-" his lip curled at the thought.

Amalia's eyebrow rose even higher. "… I won't?" her eyes seemed suddenly brighter.

Rosier held his ground. "You won't… if you know what's good for you."

"Are you… _threatening_ me?" she said in a disbelieving tone.

The air between them for a moment seemed heavy and thick, while the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. "Well… no…" he stuttered hastily, his bravery evaporating. He glared at her and tried to ignore the sudden urge he had to back away. "You don't know him, you don't know what he's capable of-"

"Oh, and what is he capable of?" she asked immediately, looking interested.

He shut his mouth instantly, but the sudden nervous glance he threw over his shoulder told her volumes.

Amalia sighed. "I know he's a dangerous cretin, Rosier, and I appreciate the warning. But I'm not about to-"

She broke off as an frustrated expression crossed his face.

"Oh, I see." She said with a knowing grin. "You're not concerned about the _poor_ new girl after all. No, your motives are quite… selfish, aren't they?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said mechanically, not liking the smirk on her face one bit.

Her grin widened maliciously, and she took a step forward. "I've seen the way you look at him, Rosier," she taunted, and he took an involuntary step back. "I've seen the way you hang on his every word."

His mouth was suddenly dry, and he regretted confronting her. Oh, he regretted it so much…

"Tell me, Rosier," she said, her brown eyes laughing, "Does your heart beat faster, when he touches you…?" she reached out and brushed his cheek almost tenderly with her thumb.

He thrust her hand away from his face and stumbled back, his eyes wide and shocked. Any trace of guilt she may have felt at taunting him about his secret was overshadowed by her annoyance at being threatened. She enjoyed his discomfort and chuckled quietly to herself as she watched him beat a hasty retreat, almost running in his eagerness to get away.

Callidora looked up as Amalia emerged from the shelves with a floating pile of books, and a large black one clutched to her chest.

"Why are you humming?" Callidora asked suspiciously.

"Am I?" said Amalia airily, and did a small pirouette before sitting down. She was curiously… cheerful.

"What's that?" asked Anne, indicating the black book as she looked up from her essay.

"A mystery." Amalia replied cryptically, opening the book to the yellowed first pages. "Or several."

"You're weird." Remarked Callidora matter-of-factly, and Anne laughed.


	5. Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and OC go to Potions. They do NOT brew a Love Potion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo… I have taken the liberty of inventing/ changing around Hogwarts staff and students' family trees to suit my own story, I guess making this slightly AU… however I do hope that my key characters are consistent in terms of canon personalities.

Rosier was staring blankly at the green and silver patterned wallpaper of the Common Room when the owl found him.

He yelped in alarm as tawny wings buffeted his head, and then the bird landed with an officious-sounding hoot, it's wickedly sharp talons biting into the plush upholstery of the couch next to the space his head had recently occupied. Which it occupied no longer, since he'd tumbled rather ungracefully off the couch in shock.

It was the middle of the night, and he tried to keep the volume of his cursing down as he shakily righted himself, glaring weakly at the offending bird, who glared right back at him. It had impressively aristocratic-looking feathers sticking out of its head, much like over-sized cartoonish eyebrows, fixing its expression into one of perpetual disdain. He half expected the owl to roll its eyes, but it merely hooted impatiently once more, and stuck out its leg.

For the first time, Rosier noticed the small white scroll tied there.

"That's… for me?" he asked perplexedly. The owl narrowed its eyes coldly at him, and twitched its outstretched leg in irritation, as if to say, _Duh_.

Rosier pulled himself upright and glanced around carefully, but he was utterly alone. The dormitory was silent - it was the middle of the night, after all. He quickly untied the note and unfurled it.

Upon being relieved of its burden, the owl immediately hopped off the back of the couch and launched itself into the air, disappearing with agile, powerful strokes of its wings back into the passage that led to the girls' dorm.

The parchment was blank, but after a moment words surfaced like a spreading stain - he suspected Vanishing Ink. He could guess who had sent it - but why?

It read, in a messy, distinctive hand:

_I'm good at keeping secrets._

_Let's be friends!_ (thereafter followed a sketched cheerful face which alternated between winking and grinning somewhat creepily up at him) _._

_If you ever find yourself in some kind of trouble, don't hesitate to ask me for help. What else are friends for?_

That was all.

He collapsed back onto the couch and sagged, running a frustrated hand through his fair hair. What kind of game was she playing? Was the first line meant to be a reassurance or a subtle threat…? She wanted to be friends with him…? That was unlikely. But she seemed to have made Tom her enemy, and so having something… or _someone_ she could use against him was useful. He bit his lip. The truth was, as loyal as he was to Riddle, the consequences of the dangerous youth finding out about his own… feelings… towards him did not bear thinking about.

Suddenly Rosier felt like he'd just been skilfully manoeuvred like a pawn on some great, invisible chess board... And there wasn't much he could do about it.

* * *

_The next day…_

_Herbology greenhouses, 9:24am._

Riddle smirked as he watched Amalia's expression turn from mild disgust into full-blown horror at the task Professor Beery had assigned them. Of course, it wasn't like he particularly _enjoyed_ fertilising sprouting bubotubers with mooncalf dung himself, but he could handle it. Amalia, on the other hand, clearly seemed to object with every fibre of her being.

She eyed the pulsating tuber in its clay pot and held it at arm's length. "But why do I have to _touch_ it," she whined, to her unsympathetic friends. The three girls merely laughed.

"Now, now, Ms Gray," chuckled Professor Beery, sweeping over with a dramatic flourish, "It's only dung and a tuber, not an incurable disease."

"I can use a spade to repot it, can't I?" she cried out, thrusting the pot away from herself onto the table and withdrawing a step. She wrinkled her nose and turned her face away from the strong-smelling pile of dung next to it. "Or… or magic?" hope kindled in her eyes and she looked imploringly at the guffawing professor, "I could use a levitation spell that-"

"Absolutely not, my dear," Professor Beery cut her off with a reproving shake of his head. "Magic effects magical plants in… _interesting_ ways. I'm afraid some elbow grease is the only way."

"You have gloves." Pointed out Callidora pragmatically, repotting her bubotuber with brisk efficiency. She seemed unconcerned by the smudge of something unmentionable on her cheek, or the smell.

Amalia's face was a comical study in despair, and Professor Beery was suddenly struck by an exciting thought.

"You seem to have quite a gift for dramatics, Miss Gray," he commented, trying not to sound too eager, "I happen to be putting together a little acting troop for this year's Yuletide production. Would you be interested in taking part?"

"A play?" Amalia was taken aback, and somewhat flattered.

"Indeed!" beamed the professor, "You could audition for the role of the beautiful heroine…?"

A not _insignificant_ part of her rather liked the idea of being on a stage. Though she despised being the centre of attention, like at the Sorting feast, playing a character that was not herself was different It sounded quite amusing. It was so much more her style. "…I don't know…" she said thoughtfully, hesitating.

"I have the script already worked out." The professor continued, "Just consider it for now. But if you _are_ interested, I'll need your reply within a fortnight."

She nodded. He beamed at her again, and opened his mouth to say something else, when he was suddenly distracted by something happening over her shoulder.

" _Longbottom_!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up, "Just _what_ do you think you're doing with that Pungous Onion?! It's not actually edible, you know…" He flounced off to berate the now-gagging Gryffindor.

"Thinking of a career in the dramatic arts, are you?"

Amalia looked over at the sound of Riddle's friendly-sounding comment.

She shrugged.

"It would suit you."

"Should I take that as a compliment, or an insult?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes slightly at him. The horrendous smell of mooncalf dung had put her in no mood for verbal fencing.

He gave a light laugh, and raised his hands as if in surrender. "It was just an observation."

Amalia threw a look of pure hatred at the bubotuber she was supposed to fertilise, and stripped off her gloves irately. "Well, it looks like I'll be failing Herbology." She said, with no trace of regret, folding her arms stubbornly.

Anne, who'd stayed out of the entire conversation to concentrate on her own plant, looked up with a deeply shocked expression. "Oh, you can't mean that!" she protested, as if she was personally offended by the off-hand remark. "You can't give up in your first class!"

Amalia shrugged. "I'm a student of magic. There's nothing magical about _gardening_ \- it's ridiculous."

Riddle placed his newly-fertilised bubotuber onto the table and stripped off his own gloves, satisfied to see that no trace of dirt had soiled his robes. He, too, disliked dirt, but unlike Amalia, he would accept nothing less than an "Outstanding" OWL in all his subjects this year. It seems he had misjudged her yet again. She was proficient in magic, but did not care for grades. That was an interesting contrast. _Well, she has spent two years on the run from the ministry,_ he reminded himself. _And even stole a Time-Turner, to boot. She's a thief and who-knows-what-else? Of course she doesn't care for grades._

To his surprise, none other than Rosier stepped forward. "I'll take care of it for you, Amalia." He offered nervously.

Tom stared at him. So even Rosier had fallen to her charms? Pity.

Amalia beamed. "Why thank you, Rosier." She said, "I really appreciate it."

Rosier avoided her eyes, and Riddle's. "N-no problem." He muttered.

Riddle's gaze flicked away from the shorter boy and back to Amlia. "And how are you feeling about Ancient Runes?" he asked her, careful to keep his voice polite and genial.

She shrugged. "The textbook seems straightforward. And I've dealt with Runes before..." Her eyes flickered as if she hadn't intended to say that last thought.

His interest was piqued. "Oh? And why is that?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "That's none of your concern."

"As you wish." He said, although his eyes had taken on a rather scary, covetous gleam.

_As if he wants to eat my brain_ , Amalia thought uneasily, as he gazed at her forehead with an odd intensity.

"Anyway." She said hastily, keen to change the topic, "The class I'm _really_ worried about is Potions. You said you'd help me, right?"

He blinked and shook his head slightly, refocusing on her. "Sorry, what?"

"We're partnering up in Potions?" she repeated, speaking with exaggerated slowness. She looked expectantly at him.

He almost sneered at her, but then his eyes travelled passed her to look at Anne, Callidora and Charlotte, who were listening with wide eyes to their conversation. He forced a smile instead. "But you'll be leaving one of your friends without a partner," he pointed out, "Seeing as there are only three of them."

She simply smiled back at him. "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure I can find another friend _some_ where to take my place."

Something about the way she'd said that made him highly suspicious, though he missed the way Rosier twitched while he was repotting Amalia's bubotuber.

* * *

_Later that day, Potions…_

As Riddle led the group of Slytherins into the passage of the dungeons where the classroom was located, raised voices and laughter could be heard, as well as the acrid smell of burning. He stopped and the others clustered around, listening curiously. Amalia and Callidora pushed themselves to the front to see what was going on.

Suddenly the door to the classroom banged open, bouncing off the wall, and Professor Slughorn stalked out, muttering bad-temperedly. Amalia was surprised, since he'd always seemed to be in a jovial mood whenever she'd seen him around the castle.

A class of dishevelled-looking sixth years filed out after him, still laughing, though they tried to stifle it under Slughorn's disapproving glare.

"Sir?" asked Riddle mildly, standing aside to let the older students pass.

Slughorn's expression brightened considerably at the sight of his favourite student, and he sighed theatrically. "Tom, m'boy, you don't know the half of it! Apparently, some of the sixth year boys thought it might be _funny_ to slip one of their friends a badly-brewed Love Potion. I swear, this is the _last time_ I teach this to students!"

A bulky Hufflepuff boy was towed out by two of his friends, almost crying with laughter as he kept trying to shake them off and turn back, with a glazed-over expression of longing. Riddle noticed some nasty-looking burns across his face and chest.

After him, none other than Walburga Black strutted out, looking smug. The end of her wand was smoking. As she passed Callidora, Amalia noticed her eyes narrow into a malicious sneer, which Callidora responded to with a frosty glare.

"Someone you don't like?" Amalia asked her, watching the taller girl passing. She was skinny, but had a broad frame, so that she seemed to be made of angles and wiry muscle. Her dark hair was chaotically curly like Callidora's, but she'd tamed it in a tight, rope-like braid. Her eyes were small and mean over a rather beakish nose.

Callidora grimaced. "My least favourite cousin. Try to stay out of her way – she's kinda crazy."

Amalia nodded. "Noted."

Slughorn motioned Riddle to come closer, and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, as if they were best buddies. Only Amalia seemed to notice how uncomfortable this contact made him.

"Tom, I need to go brew a cure for that idiot, Bones, and make sure he gets those burns sorted out in the infirmary." He raised his voice and addressed the waiting fifth years, "Get settled in and start- the instructions are on the board, and in your textbooks. I assume I can trust you all to keep your hands to yourselves for fifteen minutes…? Good. Riddle's in charge while I'm not around."

"Leave it to me, Professor." Tom said confidently, every inch the perfect little prefect. Amalia had a sudden urge to roll her eyes.

Filing into the class, Riddle got them all seated and set up in relatively short order. He surveyed the potion on the board - a medium-difficulty Restorative Potion - meant to sharpen the senses and induce wakefulness.

The rest of the class, even those not in Slytherin, seemed content to follow his directions and settled down quickly, getting their ingredients and starting work in their pairs.

Turning, he came face to face with Amalia, who was waiting by a table in the front of the class, and empty space beside her. She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

He kept his face inscrutable, noticing that his usual partner, Rosier, was setting up somewhat miserably with the mouse-ish Yaxley girl at the back of the class. He briefly wondered why he had suddenly become to compliant to Amalia's wishes.

But at least it gave him an opportunity to get to know her a little more.

"You set up our equipment and I'll get the ingredients." Riddle ordered. She grinned and started immediately.

Riddle steeled himself as he went to the ingredients cupboard, joining the throng there. Why did he have the sudden feeling this was going to be a _long_ class…?

* * *

Amalia's problem, Riddle was rapidly discovering, was that she had a _complete_ inability to follow directions. Slughorn had arrived back, but was offering no help, seeming amused the few times he'd walked by their table and heard them engaged in arguments over their cauldron.

"No, it's just _three_ fireweed roots," he exclaimed, intervening before she ruined the potion for what seemed like the hundredth time, " _Then_ you add essence of sandalwood, and _then_ the other two roots…"

"But that doesn't make sense!" she protested, gazing at him earnestly. The steam from their cheerfully bubbling concoction had made bright spots of colour on her cheeks and the ends of her hair go slightly curly, "Why does the order matter… it's not like the mixture changes after adding the essence-"

"Of course it does!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

"How?" she demanded, looking genuinely bemused.

He caught himself before he said, "It's magic", but it was a near thing.

"It's just… the properties of the ingredients react to each other." He explained, but she didn't look convinced.

To be honest, he'd had the same reaction she'd had when he first arrived - things just didn't make sense in the magical world sometimes. But she had grown up in the magical world- hadn't she? She should be used to it by now. He froze for a second. Unless… she hadn't been in the magical world that long…? But she was so skilled. That couldn't be.

Amalia hadn't noticed his sudden silence, and was preoccupied with glaring at the page in the textbook again. "Shake the poppy seeds in a ceramic container with your left hand for fifteen seconds before adding it to the mixture…" she read incredulously, and then huffed, "Oh, well, now it's just getting ridiculous."

"Stop." He caught her wrist before she could carelessly dump the unshaken seeds into their potion, which through some miracle had just reached the ideal colour described in the textbook. He pushed the intriguing thoughts of her origins out of his mind, for now. He forced the irritation out of his voice too, and tried reasoning with her, "You said you wanted to learn, didn't you?"

She looked sheepish. "Well… yeah…"

"Then just do as I say, and trust me, it'll work out."

Riddle waited as his words finally seemed to reach her, and she nodded reluctantly.

"Good." He held out the ceramic bowl. She looked at it and scowled, and then back at his expectant expression. Sighing, she took the bowl and began shaking the seeds under his watchful gaze.

* * *

Amalia was feeling quite taken aback.

Working with Riddle in Potions wasn't turning out to be _quite_ what she'd expected. She'd been prepared for him to be either achingly polite and attentive- as part of his fake, nice-guy persona, or perhaps cold and controlling, as she knew lay beneath that friendly façade.

But right now…

She looked at his expression, intensely focussed as he compared their potion's progress to the list of indicators in the textbook, a small unconscious frown in between his dark eyes. His usually perfect hair had fallen forward onto his forehead, and he hadn't even noticed. His usually inscrutable face was animated, engaged… _human_.

"Gray," he suddenly addressed her, looking up and pinning her with that sharp gaze of his.

She shook herself out of her thoughts. "What?"

"Where's the extract of rue?"

"The what?"

He sighed. "It was in a small bottle, about this big?" he motioned with his long, pale fingers.

"Ooh, _that_." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "I, er… I thought that was the essence of, eh… the essence of-"

"The essence of foxglove? So, you already added it during… step six?"

"Um, yes. But it's still the right colour, so maybe it's not so bad…?"

He shook his head. "No, the potion is useless without the extract at this stage, in order to counteract the side-effects of the other ingredients."

"Oh." She looked down, feeling bad after all their efforts. Mainly, his efforts.

He tapped the textbook thoughtfully. "Well, we still may be able to salvage it…" she watched as he walked over to the ingredient's cupboard and rummaged around in it for a while, before returning.

"This," he said triumphantly, holding up a small wooden box, "Is the flakes of redwood." His voice took on a lecturing tone, "It has the properties of healing, fire resistance, immunity to stun effects and is most efficacious during a full moon…- What?"

Amalia shook her head, smiling. "Nothing. You're just… kind of… incredible, do you know that?"

He frowned, unsure whether she was mocking him or not. She certainly _looked_ sincere. He decided to ignore her, and opened the box, taking out a carefully measured pinch before adding it to their concoction. "I believe it may act as a substitute for the missing ingredient." He explained, and handed her a ladle. "Here, you do it."

They both watched the potion intently, as Amalia stirred it twenty times in a clockwise direction, as per the textbook.

On the twentieth stir, the potion turned a brilliant green - just as the textbook described the ideal end stage.

Amalia gave a delighted laugh, and even Riddle managed a small smirk at their success.

Slughorn swanned over and announced their Potion was "just about the most perfect Restorative Draught he'd even seen", before awarding them both hefty points for Slytherin.

Amalia watched as little-by-little, Riddle's mask slipped back into place, a fake smile on his face and a calculating look in his eye. But now she knew what lay beneath.

"You're actually a good teacher," she remarked as they packed up their work table. And she meant it, too. Of course, he had been impatient with her, and rude, too, but he'd taken the trouble to explain everything he was doing. And he'd given her a chance to do everything herself, helping her when she was confused, correcting her when she was making a mistake… and throughout it all, there had been a kind of unguarded honesty about him that she'd never seen before. He was brilliant at Potions - well, he was brilliant at most things, it seemed - but more than that, he genuinely _enjoyed_ it, too.

His eyes widened in surprise at her off-handed comment, before his blank mask re-asserted itself. "Well…I can't say you're a good student." He replied coldly. The rest of the class was loud and preoccupied, so he didn't bother being polite.

She just laughed, gazing at him with something like admiration. He was used to seeing that look in others' eyes, but not on Amalia's. When his classmates and teachers looked at him like that, he felt nothing but contempt for them. But now a tingle of pleasure ran through him, and it confused him no end.

"I'll practise," she promised, "And next time, I'll be better." She tipped him a wink and swung her bag over her shoulder, before sauntering out of the classroom.

_Next time?_

How ridiculous. _As if I care what she thinks of me…!_

_"You're just… kind of… incredible, do you know that?"_

Lestrange sauntered over to where Riddle was irritably clearing his table with a clenched jaw. The rest of the class was empty, and even Slughorn had disappeared into his office. "That little girly giving you a headache?" he remarked in his gravelly voice, smirking.

Riddle stiffened, and shot the bigger boy a dark look. Lestrange had never treated him with _quite_ the same amount of deference as the others. And yet, he had a malicious streak that the others didn't, a willingness to go as far as was needed… and that made him quite useful. "Watch your tongue." He said coldly.

Lestrange was not immune to intimidation, however, though he was better at concealing it. He nodded, accepting the rebuke, and lowered his gaze from Riddle's challenging stare. "Is there something I can do?"

Riddle snapped the clasp of his bag shut decisively. "There is." He said, then lowered his voice. "I've changed my mind. I want it happening on Friday."

Lestrange's eyes widened. "…You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Riddle snapped. He needed to get to the bottom of just _who_ Amalia Gray was, before she worked her way into his head any further. "You remember what we discussed? Just do your part, and leave the rest to me."

A truly wicked smile lit up Lestrange's usually heavy-lidded expression.

"I look forward to it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> A note on Love Potions:
> 
> So, I had this idea for their first Potions class because it feels like every single Tom Riddle fanfic out there does some variation of the "Tom and OC pair up and brew a love potion in Potions." So I thought it would be funny to write an alternative :)
> 
> Next chapter is called "Friday". What do they have planned? Something nasty, I'm sure… And just when Amalia was starting to warm up to him, too.


	6. Friday

By the time Friday came around, Amalia was pretty sure Riddle was up to something. At first she blamed it on her paranoia – she didn't mind acknowledging that she had a bit of a problem there – but as the week went on and the signs increased, she became convinced that something was going to happen.

Throughout the week she noticed Riddle's posse having whispered conversations that stopped the minute she walked by, and Dolohov and Avery were walking around with expressions like they were at a funeral. They were reluctant to meet her eyes.

Riddle, on the other hand, became positively stand-offish in class, neither making things harder or easier for her. When she happened to glance his way, he'd get this little faraway smile, as if he was looking forward to something, and it downright creeped her out.

Of all of them, Rosier was the twitchiest, and Amalia could just _see_ the internal conflict in his eyes every time he looked at her. Fear of Riddle, or fear of her exposing his secret… to Riddle. She actually felt sorry for the guy, since she'd put him in a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation.

Even so, she decided to give him a chance to make his own decision, and see how things turned out.

Her patience was rewarded when she woke up on Friday morning to a tawny owl perching on her side table.

"Who's that from?" Anne was the only one awake, already dressed as she neatly combed her hair into a long pony-tail. Callidora and Charlotte were still snoring softly in the dim early morning light.

"I have my suspicions." Amalia yawned, and sat up, holding out her arm. The owl hopped forward and waited patiently while she untied the note on its leg.

There was only one word neatly inscribed on it.

_Today._

Amalia pulled a face and crumpled up the note.

"What is it?" Anne asked curiously, as the owl flew out of the dormitory. Amalia hoped it had the sense to return to the Owlery, not the boy's dorm.

"Nothing to be worried about." Amalia said with a smile. "Just Riddle being an evil git."

Anne raised her eyebrows and stopped combing briefly. "Riddle again? What is it with you two…?"

Amalia thrust back her covers and got up, stretching briskly. Today looked like it was going to be interesting… "Never you mind." She strode over to her neighbour's bed and shook her shoulder. "Dora! Up and at 'em! Rise and shine!"

She was rewarded by bad-tempered swearing and a violently launched pillow, which she cheerfully ducked.

* * *

 

_Later…_

Amalia was getting a little creeped out by Riddle's friends again.

The class was gathering outside the Herbology greenhouses, having just completed another class Amalia considered utterly useless.

The Hufflepuffs were leaning against the greenhouse glass wall, enjoying the sunshine and chatting quietly. The Ravenclaws had already departed early for their next class. The Gryffindors were laughing loudly as the ever-gregarious Longbottom levitated a Putrefied Tuber and made it fly around his friends’ heads. It was a relatively harmless magical vegetable, but it did burst if handled roughly, and the smell produced by its innards was particularly horrible. The Slytherin boys looked on contemptuously… all except one. This time, it was Lestrange staring at her. Well, _leering_ was probably the best word for it.

She decided to ignore him and turned her attention back to Callidora, who was, as usual, getting wildly enthusiastic about something.

"… And that's why Fridays are my favourite day out of the whole week!"

"Sorry, I completely zoned out… What?" Amalia deadpanned, making Charlotte burst into a fit of giggles.

Callidora gulped air for a moment. "A-Amalia! Seriously, you weren't listening to a thing I just said?!"

Amalia pursed her lips with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Mm… something about a cake they only serve on Fridays?"

"It's not just any cake! It's Black Forrest Gateau, with real berries and cream made with-"

Longbottom was so busy dodging the flying Putrefied Tuber, that he backed right into Charlotte, his broad frame sending her sprawling onto the ground with a surprised cry.

"S-sorry!" stammered Charlotte, blushing furiously as she righted herself.

"Oi, Longbottom! Watch it, you great oaf!" exclaimed Callidora, hoisting her up while glaring at the lanky Gryffindor. "Charlotte, you're not the one who needs to apologise!"

He flinched at Callidora's fierce tone and coloured. "Geez - sorry, Yaxley." He glanced back at his friends, who were laughing, and then back to Callidora's fierce expression. He stepped up quickly and stooped to help pick up her fallen bag. "Uh, are you okay?"

She went mute and nodded, avoiding his eyes. It was not a common occurrence for Slytherins to speak with Gryffindors. He gave her bag back to her with another mumbled apology and beat a hasty retreat.

"Honestly, Charl," Callidora said sternly, "You should stick up for yourself more!"

Charlotte, redfaced, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like another apology.

Amalia chuckled, and dusted Charlotte's arm off kindly. "I don't think you're helping." She told Callidora.

"C'mon," ordered Callidora, appraising her with a critical look, "You're full of mud. I'll go with you to the dorms before our next class."

Amalia and Anne watched them head up to the castle and set off at a slower pace, heading to Transfiguration. Anne shook her head. "It's hard to believe she's a Slytherin, isn't it?"

"Charlotte? Why do you say that?"

"Nothing," Anne shrugged, "It's just… Most Slytherins are independent, ambitious… Sometimes I wonder if she wouldn't be happier in a different house."

Amalia smiled. "Without you two to take care of her?" she teased, "She'd be miserable!"

Anne returned her smile and chuckled. "You're probably right. Although it's mainly Dora's hobby, I think."

Anne linked her arm through Amalia's, and she felt a warm glow of joy spreading through her at the casual gesture. So this was what it was like to have friends? At first she'd only been interested in Hogwarts for the promise of safety, but now…

Perhaps she'd finally be able to build a normal life here with Anne, Callidora and Charlotte.

* * *

 

_Dinner in the Great Hall…_

Amalia was starting to relax. She'd been very careful the whole day, and she thought for sure she'd foiled Riddle's efforts. After all, he could hardly ambush her in front of all of their classmates. All in all, she was feeling quietly triumphant as she sat next to Callidora as they waited for the feast to begin.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong?" Anne asked, frowning at her.

"I just realised that I forgot to hand in that essay for Binns!" Charlotte wailed.

Callidora threw her hands up in exasperation. "Charlotte, we were just in class half an hour ago! You really forgot?"

She nodded miserably.

"It's the first essay of the year." Anne pointed out, "It's kind of a big deal. Well, I'm sure Binns won't be too harsh if you hand it in on Monday. Half the class are usually late with theirs, anyway."

"But last year I almost failed History!" Charlotte whined, pouting. "I really want to hand it in." she glanced towards the teacher's table and leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "Binns just arrived. If I sneak out now, I could just go and get the essay from the Common Room, and put it on his desk…?"

"It's just an essay," Amalia said absently, preoccupied with scanning the Slytherin table again. "Like Anne says, hand it in on Monday." Dolohov was still avoiding her eyes. Rosier looked miserable… Lestrange was missing.  _Hmm…_

"No, I want to hand it in tonight."

Callidora shrugged. "It's up to you. We'll make up an excuse if anyone asks."

"I- do one of you mind coming with me?" Charlotte bit her lip. "The dungeons are haunted, you know."

"Grow a backbone," snapped Callidora, folding her arms. Amalia turned to look at her with raised eyebrows, then remembered – Friday was Black Forest Gateau night. There was no way Callidora would pass up the opportunity to eat her favourite dessert, even for Charlotte. She'd waited the whole summer holiday to taste it again.

Anne also looked annoyed at the smaller girl. "Wait for Monday," she advised, "If you're caught you could really get into trouble." Oddly for a Slytherin, Anne was quite vehemently against rule-breaking.

"But I can't afford to fail this essay!" Charlotte exclaimed, and turned her eyes beseechingly to Amalia.

Amalia hesitated. She  _really_  didn't want to be roaming the halls, not when she was getting such weird vibes from Riddle… her eyes suddenly caught the doors of the Great Hall, which opened a small crack. It was none other than Lestrange, making his way with his usual casual swagger back up the table to sit near Riddle without comment. She shook her head as if to clear it. She was just being paranoid. Every one of Riddle's little group was now accounted for.

"Alright." She said, turning back to Charlotte, "I'll go with you."

Callidora stood, looking guilty. She was used to taking care of Charlotte. "Well, I guess I could-"

"There's no reason for all of us to go." Amalia said logically. Callidora tried not to look too relieved, and sat back down slowly. Her mouth was already watering at the thought of the first slice of her favourite cake.

Anne scowled. "You two had better not get caught."

Charlotte nodded eagerly, and Amalia gave a reassuring smile. "We'll be back before the end of the feast," she promised, and then let herself be towed out of the hall. It wasn't an odd sight, as students were allowed to go to the bathrooms and walk about during dinner. Afterwards, however, Prefects would do a headcount and make sure everyone was accounted for. They needed to be back by then.

Charlotte was quiet as they walked quickly through the darkened halls, the flames of the torches casting eerie shadows on the stone. But it wasn't unlike her to be that quiet. Amalia rather enjoyed it, actually, relishing the chance to do something against the rules. Even if it was something as basic as skipping supper and dropping off an essay on a teacher's desk.

"Do you remember where you left it?" Amalia asked, as they descended the last flight of steps into the lowest floor of the castle. As always, the air was colder the further in they walked.

"Mm." said Charlotte absently. "The table by the fireplace… I think."

Amalia spoke the password to the entrance of the Common Room and entered first.

She walked over to the fireplace and looked around.

"Charlotte, it's not here. Are you sure you-"

"Sorry, Amalia." Charlotte's soft voice was devoid of emotion. " _Petrificus totalus_."

* * *

 

" _Enervate_."

Amalia opened her eyes gingerly, blinking herself back to full consciousness. For a moment she was disorientated, unable to grasp what had happened, but then everything flooded back to her and she felt a bizarre laugh trying to bubble up.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the near-total darkness, and she could see the castle, its cheerful light casting a halo of safety onto the grounds. Unfortunately, she was no longer in that halo of safety. Oh no, she was kneeling on the damp grass near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, it seemed, while three tall, dark figures stood before her, casting shadows like bars across the lawn. Their hoods were up and she couldn't see their faces, as the light was behind them.

As someone who had been kidnapped before, however, the effect wasn't quite as terrifying as it was meant to be.

She remembered Charlotte casting the body-bind curse (she didn't feel too angry, but rather impressed; the sneaky little brat had actually managed to curse _her_ ).

Then, she remembered lying on the floor, smelling the carpet of the Slytherin Common Room for several long minutes, rueing her uncharacteristic lapse of judgement, while Charlotte hummed a song cheerfully from the couch nearby.

A short while later, someone else entered through the Slytherin entrance, and she strained her ears trying to hear the short, low conversation the person had with her traitorous friend. Then the person said in a deep, male voice, " _Stupefy_ ", and she knew nothing more until she'd woken up kneeling on the lawns.

She suspected Lestrange, which would also explain the Charlotte connection. Her obsession with him was apparent, and she wasn't smart enough to think up a plan like this by herself, anyway.

In which case, the shadowy person who stood relaxed and smug in front of her was-

"Riddle." She greeted politely, as if they'd just met for tea. Shifting slightly, she noticed her hands were bound behind her back.

He gave a high, cold laugh that sent shivers down her spine. But it wasn't really  _fear_ … she was pretty sure he wouldn't kill her, and that meant she'd have ample opportunity to mess up his plans, whatever they were. Rather, she felt a rush of… excitement. She hadn't been attacked in  _months_. He was going to regret this.

"You don't lose your composure, even in this situation? How brave of you… or stupid." His voice was mocking, and she could just  _feel_  his smirk from where she was kneeling. It really pissed her off.

Her eyes flashed, and her smile was wolfish, more like a snarl. "Would you prefer me to beg?" she spat. She affected a childish whine, basing it on Charlotte's usual whimper, "Oh, please, don't hurt me! Why are you doing this?" the shadowy figures shifted, seeming surprised by her sarcastic tone. Her next words cracked like a whip, harsh and contemptuous, her face hard, "Stop fucking around. You have questions? Ask them and then let's duel. You want to find out who's stronger, don't you? I'd love the chance to send you back in a  _matchbox_." She snarled. The figure on Riddle's left shifted uncomfortably as Amalia's magic oppressed them, like a tangible weight on the air. She wondered which of his cronies it was. He was too tall to be Rosier, unfortunately. The hulking figure on his right was clearly Lestrange, from his broad shoulders.

But Riddle merely gave a short laugh again, and she saw him shake his head. "Brave words, Gray. And you're right, I do want to duel you. But first…" he drew his long, pale wand out of his robes and couched down onto her level. Now she could make out the details of his face, could read the cruelty and malice there. "I don't need to  _ask_  questions to get answers."

"What-" she began, eyes wide, caught by his dark gaze.

He placed the tip of his wand on her temple.

" _Legilimens_!"

His black eyes were dark pools, dragging her inexorably into their inky depths…

**What are you hiding, Gray? Just what are you?**

"… _You're a witch, Ms Gray, and you belong at a school like Hogwarts." Dumbledore's face, earnest and perhaps a little exasperated, swam up to the front of her mind._

 _She folded her arms. "I know exactly what I am. And I'm perfectly happy_ where _I am, thanks all the same," she replied stubbornly, indicating the door with a jerk of her head._

_He stepped reluctantly out into the alley in Knockturn. "I'll be back in a week, Ms Gray, and I hope you will have reconsidered…"_

_She slammed the door in his face, making sure all the locks slid back into their correct positions…_

She felt him sorting through her memories like a player shuffled cards, and gritted her teeth, her head swimming.

**Further back…**

_A dusty shop filled with strange artefacts. She stiffened behind the moth-eaten bust of a woman, overhearing an interesting conversation._

" _What is it?"_

" _Nothin' short of miraculous, I promise, guv'nor." The grimy man withdrew a small object from the depths of his coat and showed it to the shopkeeper, whose eyes widened._

" _Fool!" he hissed, "How could you bring somethin' like that down here? The ministry will have us in Azkaban for goin' near a Time-Turner-"_

Time-Turner? _She thought, excited. That was just what she needed. Finally, some good fortune. She'd have more than enough time to prepare for the next time They came-_

**He was irritated now. Further back – further – Who are "they"?**

She felt a sickening swoop of nausea as images flashed across her eyes, speeding up faster and faster until…

Riddle frowned, feeling a massive blank in her memories, a slippery grey field of fog through which vague shapes could barely be discerned. Frustrated with his efforts to see through it, he pushed further back into her past, to one of her earliest memories. Perhaps it would work to go chronologically, from the beginning. As he did, he felt a sudden spike in Amalia's emotions, red-hot anger like jagged glass snagging at his temples. He ignored it and concentrated.

_A wide room brightly lit with fluorescent lights swam into focus, along with the harsh smell of cleaning chemicals._

" _634, exemplary, as usual." The man in the white coat's voice was blank, but she felt a warm glow of pride nevertheless as she concentrated, the wooden alphabet blocks floating several inches off the ground under her shaking, five-year-old hands. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick._

_Around her, the other dull-eyed kids watched enviously, sitting in an unnaturally silent circle in their blue hospital-gowns. The man ticked something off on his clipboard, one eyebrow raised._

The room faded, only to be instantly replaced…

_Their footsteps echoed on the linoleum, hers pattering as she trotted to keep up with the tall man, who held her hand in a vice-like grip, almost towing her down the passage._

_She wasn't afraid. The fear would come later. For now, she was just pleased at being singled out from the group. Was he taking her somewhere new? Would it be fun? Was she finally going to see what it was like Outside? Her little heart was almost bursting with anticipation…_

" _You're different from the others." His abrupt statement drew her wide eyes to his impassive face. His words were clipped, precise, educated. "Did you know that, Amalia?"_

_She blinked up at him, and then giggled nervously. "Who's Amalia? I'm 634." She informed him, pointing at the number embroidered on the front of her blue gown._

**Get out of my head.**

_He shook his head slowly. "No, my dear. When you were born, your name was Amalia Gray. We put you with the others and gave you that number, but that's not who you are. You're very special, indeed."_

" _I am?"_

**This is _private_ …**

" _You're very strong, my dear. I knew you would be. We're stopping right here…" he paused at broad double-doors, and pushed them open. Beyond she was disappointed to see yet another clinical-looking white room, and a few nurses standing about._

_He lifted her effortlessly, roughly, onto the metal table. She tried not to yelp at the rough handling, tried to be strong, like he said she was._

**It's _private_ , you bastard…!**

_A nurse approached with a metal syringe, and she couldn't help it, she blanched, and instinctively clutched at the man's arm. He shrugged her off, face blank._

" _Don't worry." He told her dispassionately, nodding at the nurse to continue. "You won't remember anything."_

_The nurse approached, the light catching the cruel syringe, and she began to scr-_

**Get OUT!**

The memories disappeared in a flash of colour and light, and Amalia gasped as pain flooded her senses, her wrists hurting something awful. But at least she'd broken free. The ropes fell to the ground behind her, blackened and burnt through by the fire she'd managed to conjure without her wand.

She'd always had an affinity with fire.

She lurched to her feet, rapidly regaining her faculties. He hadn't discovered much. Nothing that could be used against her, anyway. But having Legilimency performed on her wasn't pleasant, and she felt a wave of rage towards him. This bastard was going  _down_.

She sensed rather than saw the two figures on either side of Riddle drawing their wands, surprised at her sudden movement, and knew she only had seconds to act. Riddle was still crouched in front of her, his eyes unfocussed, trying to sort through the memories he'd just fished out of her brain. Legilimency, it seemed, didn't come easily to him yet.

She used this window of opportunity, and did the only thing she could – she snapped her leg out in a vicious kick, sending him sprawling, and then threw herself down next to him, dodging the jet of red light that had come from Lestrange. The other figure she could now see was Dolohov, and he seemed reluctant to curse her.  _Fool_. Riddle would no doubt have something horrible planned for him later, for this hesitation. But it was to her advantage. She reached into the inner pocket of his robe as Riddle shook himself out of his daze.

With a triumphant grin, her hand closed on the familiar wood of her wand, just as Lestrange's yanked on the back of her robes. Her eyes glinted.

" _Regero hostibulus_!" she commanded, and Dolohov and Lestrange were blasted backwards several metres, where they lay unmoving, stunned by the force of the spell. She was on her feet a moment later, panting slightly.

"You're going to pay for that, Riddle," she spat. "Raise your wand."

She stepped back a few paces, waiting while Riddle rose to his feet, nursing a bleeding lip from her kick. To his credit, he kept his composure remarkably well, though the air virtually  _shivered_  with his killing intent.

"That was rude." He said, cold rage evident in every syllable, "I wasn't finished yet."

"Legilimency. Hardly a skill they teach at Hogwarts…" she gave him her best sneer, "I'm impressed. It's a neat trick...But you don't seem very good at it yet."

He returned her sneer with an utterly confident smirk. "I only started learning this year. I'll just have to practise, then."

"You won't get a second opportunity." She vowed.

He was unimpressed. "We'll see."

"Why are you so interested in me?"

His smile was chilling. "Boredom… I suppose."

She shifted into a duelling stance, her right foot edging forward and her left shoulder angling back, reducing the target area. "I'll have to do something about that."

He tensed, and raised his wand.

For a moment they stared at each other, both intent on the imminent fight, as the world around them shrunk into insignificance.

Riddle had a wave of de ja vu from his dream and was suddenly breathless. Amalia stood before him, her hair messy and her face flushed in anger, her fearless eyes reflecting the lights from the castle like stars. Quite simply, she was… Beautiful.

Then-

" _Ustulo inimicio_!" she shouted, and a ribbon of fire burst forth out of her wand, flying at him at breakneck speed.

He broke out of his paralysis and reacted immediately, conjuring a shimmering blue shield with a quick flick of his wrist that absorbed the attack, sparks flying and scorching the grass, before responding with " _Debilito_!", a concussive shockwave that would have slammed her into the ground, had she not instantly negated the spell with its counter-curse, lips moving in a blur.

For a moment they paused, as the grass smouldered, and the thunder from his spell faded like a distant storm.

"Not bad." He complimented her, shocked to find he actually meant it.

She stared at him for a moment. "… You, too." She finally replied.

Next, he sent a jet of purple light towards her, moving with quick steps to his right. She dodged it expertly and slashed her wand, making the ground quake as a black cloud coalesced in mid-air and flew towards him. He watched it warily, conjuring three types of shields, as he didn't recognise the spell. It was a good precaution, as the cloud ate holes through the first two shields like acid, draining his energy as it did, before meeting the third shield and dispersing. He narrowed his eyes at her. That was almost certainly a Dark curse.

She inclined her head at him, as if to say,  _So what?_

With a muttered incantation, spikes of ice rained down on her from the night sky, but she merely smirked and conjured a greenish shield that turned the spikes to gentle snowflakes that floated down and settled lightly on her head and shoulders, before harmlessly melting away.

Next they dispersed with such showy magic in favour of speed and power, trading a multi-coloured flurry of spells, dodging some while others rebounded off magical shields. Neither could gain the upper hand, and neither could afford to relax. Both of them used fast, easily pronounced curses and spells, though Tom noticed she occasionally used Dark magic as well as the usual duelling spells. He did the same, of course. For the moment, neither of them were aiming to kill, although each spell was incredibly dangerous. The first to fall would no doubt have some pretty horrific injuries.

As Tom was hastily fending off a hail of flaming arrows, he heard a curious sound over the reverberations on his shield.

His mouth opened slightly.

Amalia was _laughing_. A reckless, wild laugh of pure exhilaration, as she sent brutal curse after curse at him. And it wasn't as if she was besting him- he could even spot a rip in the material of her shoulder where one of his hasty Cutting Hexes had caught her. The hem of his own robe was smouldering, and his arms already ached with the speed at which they traded spells. Though the night air wasn't very warm, both were sweating from exertion.

Even so… the same savage excitement was kindling in the pit of his stomach, too, and though he didn't laugh like her, he could understand the impulse.

Amalia dodged a particularly impressive Dark Curse, seeing the spot she'd just occupied get vaporized into a small crater, with a reckless grin. Usually, she was a pacifist by nature, and preferred to end conflicts with words, not actions. However, when her life was endangered, she found that something inside her seemed to snap, and all fear would leave her. Perhaps she went temporarily insane. She felt like a red haze had descended, like the bloodlust of Vikings in a bygone age. But it didn't come from anger – even the annoyance at Riddle's invasion of her mind had faded. She was having way too much fun.

She felt herself settling into the rhythm of the duel, relishing the give and take of it, the split-second decisions which could change, or drastically shorten your life, all happening in a matter of moments. It was as if they were engaged in a deadly dance… and Riddle was an excellent partner.

She watched his movements closely, looking for an opening. He was fast and surprisingly agile at dodging and attacking, closing or retreating whenever he needed to. He'd stopped smirking, which she took as a good sign. Instead, his expression was focussed, but slightly abstracted, as he attacked and reacted to her attacks with predatory grace. She had to respect his skill. However…

He might have an instinctive knack for duelling, but  _she_  had experience on her side.

She launched a barrage of simple attacks, aimed at keeping him on the defensive, as she stepped forward. As expected, he was unable to attack for a brief moment, stumbling backwards, concentrating on a hastily-constructed defence, and she used this brief respite to cant a longer, double-layered spell. It had come from an old, yellowed tome that some years ago had been issued with a Level 6 Dark Arts "Burn-Upon-Sight" warning. Living in Knockturn had some perks, and access to rare, forbidden magics was one of them.

Perhaps such a powerful spell was cheating… a bit, but as fun as it was, all duels had to come to an end sometime.

She let the spell fly from the tip of her wand, feeling the powerful curse bursting free as if it had a tangible weight. "Block that, you bastard," she smirked, seeing his eyes widen as he saw the spell, a shapeless blob emitting a sickly-looking golden glow as it swooped towards him.

He just had time to conjure a blue sphere around him before it landed, wrapping itself around his circle of protection. He watched in shock as cracks formed on the shell – incidentally his strongest barrier - and then the sphere shattered like glass.

He exhaled sharply as the golden spell slid like oil over his skin, paralysing him like an insect trapped in amber, and he felt an unpleasant pressure not unlike a grasping hand slithering up his throat, cutting off his air-supply… what it would do when it got to his mouth and nose, he did not want to find out.

" _Expelliarmus_."

The golden spell suddenly melted away into thin air, releasing him. He gave a choked gasp and fell to his knees on suddenly weak legs. Amalia caught his wand with one hand, examining it with detached interest. It was a little longer than she was used to, but all in all it didn't feel too bad in her hand.

"I win." She said mildly, and pointed her wand at Dolohov, then Lestrange. With muffled groans, they started moving again. Unfortunately for them, they'd missed the whole fight.

He struggled to his feet, feeling a blistering wave of white-hot rage at her… and himself. He had… lost. He  _never_  lost. "Why did you stop?" he demanded, as she walked towards him. His wand and hers were held loosely at her side. His hands itched to close on her slender throat.

She met his murderous gaze with an amused look. "That spell would have ripped you apart, Riddle. How would I explain the body to Dumbledore?"

He was unsure how seriously to take that, and was still glaring at her when she stuck out her hand towards him. He instinctively reached out and took the wand she'd just offered him back, dumbfounded. Instantly he tensed, wanting to curse her into oblivion for daring to be so impudent, but… he hesitated.

She caught his hesitation, and rolled her eyes. "It's over, Riddle. If you want, we can duel again some time - if I feel particularly pissed off at you - but I suggest we make it some other night." She nodded up at the castle, and he followed her gaze. "Our antics seem to have already attracted attention."

"Shit." There were figures moving at the entrance. They'd obviously observed their duel, which must have looked like fireworks in the dark.

"I assume you had a plan to cover your kidnapping of the damsel in distress?" her voice was achingly dry.

"Of course," said Riddle promptly. He put his annoyance at losing to her on the back-burner for now, satisfied with her promise to duel him again. Next time, things would be different. For now, all they had to do was  _not_  get expelled. "We can enter through a maintenance door, near the greenhouses."

Dolohov and Lestrange approached uncertainly, looking dazed and confused. Their leader and their kidnap victim were standing side-by-side looking at the castle, their wands loosely clasped at their sides, and they seemed to be having a cordial conversation. How on earth did  _that_  happen? Meanwhile, the ground for about fifty metres on each side resembled a war-zone. Amalia's shoulder was bleeding from a shallow gash, and the hem of Riddle's robe was smouldering. He also had a shadow forming in the shape of a hand at the base of his throat, a purpling bruise that didn't look natural.

But from their expressions it would seem as though they'd been taking a stroll.

Amalia glanced at them. "Let's not delay. Dolohov, you go first."

"Uh…sure." He stammered, and they set off at a fast walk, making a wide arc and keeping to the shadows as the approached the castle from the side.

"Incidently," Amalia remarked into the awkward silence as they walked. "How were you planning to keep me quiet about this when you were done with me?"

Riddle glanced at her. "Memory charm." He said dismissively.

She stopped walking.

Lestrange just stopped in time to stop himself from walking into her back.

Riddle turned, one eyebrow raised.

Her expression was cold, and more serious than he'd ever seen it. "Riddle." She said quietly. "I'll only say this once, so listen carefully. If I ever catch you trying to put a memory charm on me, I  _will_  kill you. It's not a warning, it's just a fact."

Lestrange gave a snort behind her, but she ignored him.

Previously, Riddle might have sneered at her for a comment like that, but now… as much as he hated it, he had to admit she was capable. If she'd wanted him dead tonight… he would have been.

He thought back to the grey, blank space he'd seen in her memories - a gap spanning several years…

"Alright." He said. "Rules of engagement."  _If I do cast a Memory Charm on you, I'd just better be damn sure you don't find out_ , he added privately.

They continued walking.

The greenhouse entrance was quiet and deserted.

"After you." Riddle murmured, holding the door open for Amalia.

"Thank you." She said politely, and stepped through.

"Lestrange, Dolohov," Riddle said coldly. "I want a word before we continue."

"Then, I'll see you later in the Common Room," Amalia said, and Riddle nodded, his eyes already fixed on Dolohov, whose hands started shaking, and Lestrange, who seemed suddenly a little paler than usual.

She tried to feel sorry for them, but couldn't quite manage it, so she just left. The kidnapping was too fresh in her mind.

Amalia cleaned off the sleeve of her robe as she walked away into the dark castle – she would take care of the cut herself with her Healer's Compendium. And perhaps some Murtlap Essence.

But mostly her thoughts started turning to how she was going to deal with a certain little  _brat's_  brazen betrayal…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of people have commented that Amalia should be as evil as Tom.  
> That's pretty evil, y'know! She is not going to be that evil, I'm sorry to say.
> 
> BUT I will say this: she definitely has a darker side to her - how dark, you'll have to wait and see. And if they have an effect on each other's characters, it won't be deliberate, more like a bleeding effect.
> 
> Either way, things are going to be interesting, so stick around. It's not one of "those" fanfics, when Tom undergoes a miraculous transformation. You can't separate Tom and his evilness, it's kinda the whole point of his character.


	7. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amalia gets revenge

"Where were you?" demanded Callidora instantly, as Amalia entered the girl's dormitory. She stopped her pacing and stared, taking in Amalia's windswept hair, sweaty face and the gash on her shoulder, just visible through the bloody rip in her robes. Also, it was past midnight.

Anne frowned, hesitantly stepping forward with a concerned, "Are you alright?"

Amalia didn't answer immediately, but looked carefully between them. She felt a wave of relief. She'd been uncertain whether they'd been involved, but one look at their concerned expressions and she knew her fears were unfounded. She grinned. "I'm absolutely fine," she assured them. With the knowledge that _they,_ at least, hadn't betrayed her, she felt positively cheerful, still high after the buzz of beating Riddle. Seeing his disbelieving, outraged face as she disarmed him had been worth all the shit he'd put her through...

Her gaze came to rest on Charlotte, who was perched nervously on the edge of her bed, pale as a ghost.

"I've just had a rather... memorable... evening." Amalia drawled. _I still remember everything, you little_ -

The petite brunette cringed, her gaze darting to the door as if she was considering making a run for it.

Anne and Callidora were too preoccupied with staring at her to notice Charlotte's odd behaviour, so Amalia merely sauntered past her to sit on her own bed, pondering how best to take her revenge. Charlotte clearly didn't want Anne and Callidora to find out about her little betrayal - she wondered if this was something that might actually cost her five years' worth of friendship. But that was a little too _direct_ for Amalia's taste. She wanted to see the little snake squirm, first.

"Charlotte, did you tell them where I went?" she asked lazily, shrugging out of her robe and laying it on the bed.

Anne hissed at the sight of the long, yet shallow bloody gash across her upper arm, and the minor burns on her wrists from where the ropes had spontaneously ignited.

Charlotte didn't seem capable of speech, so, as usual, Callidora came to her rescue. "She said you went to the library?"

Amalia nodded, "Ah, yes, so I did." _You couldn't come up with anything better, you idiot?_ she sneered internally. "I went to the _library."_ she waved her wand and a heavy, worn-looking book soared out of her trunk, as well as a small vial of yellowish-looking potion and a ream of white bandages.

Anne sat down next to her on her bed and picked up the book curiously, tracing the words "Healer's Compendium" on the front. "Who attacked you?" she asked, opening the book.

Callidora bent closer to get a look at her wound as Amalia dabbed at it with murtlap essence on the end of a bandage. "Who do you think?" she threw back.

Callidora frowned. "The only one who could beat you in magic is- But... I thought he liked you?"

"It was Riddle," confirmed Amalia, wincing as the essence stung her wound, "Doesn't this just prove what I've been saying since the beginning? We're _enemies_ , Dora."

Callidora sighed. "I believe you now." For some reason she looked disappointed.

Anne found the page dealing with minor cuts and burns and held up the book as Amalia recited the spells to speed healing. The burns on her wrists instantly turned a healthy pink, though it still felt sensitive, while the cut on her arm itched and closed slowly.

"Are you going to tell Dippet?" asked Anne seriously. "Or at least Slughorn?"

Amalia snorted with laughter. "Why would I do that? No one needs to find out." she tipped a leer and a wink at Charlotte just to let her know that it was far from over... the smaller girl's throat bobbed nervously as she swallowed.

"But he hurt you!" argued Anne, sounding offended on her behalf. "He attacked a girl-"

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?" Callidora interrupted loudly, scowling. Amalia hid a smile - Callidora was quite a feminist.

"She's _bleeding_ , Dora!" hissed Anne, indicating the wound.

Amalia shrugged. "Actually, the bleeding's stopped now. And anyway," she gave a satisfied chuckle, "You should see _him."_

All three of them turned in unison to stare at her. "Why... What does-? Did you-!" Dora sounded way too eager to hear the details.

Amalia thought pleasantly about how Riddle must be dealing with his own wounds at that very moment. "Well," she started with relish, "First, I kicked him in the face-" Callidora bounced on the bed and whooped, cackling, while Anne tried to look disapproving, but couldn't help raising her eyebrows, impressed. "Then," Amalia ticked it off on her hand, "I think I managed to give him a nasty burn on one leg... And he'll have some serious bruising here," she indicated the area around her neck.

"Duelling is against the rules," chided Anne half-heartedly, as Callidora snorted with laughter.

"I thought your dream was for Riddle and I to sail off into the sunset together or something," Amalia said mildly.

Callidora wiped a tear away from her eye with a dramatic flourish. "Nah, this is better. He's had it coming for a long time."

"Why would you say that?" Amalia was honestly surprised. Since she'd arrived, she'd heard nothing but praise for Riddle, albeit with a couple of cautionary words. People seemed to _sense_ there was something dangerous about him... but he kept his true face carefully concealed from everyone. She hadn't met anyone who actually wished him ill, yet.

Callidora and Anne traded looks. "We've known Riddle since first year... he was... _different_ then." Anne started slowly.

Callidora nodded. "Scarier."

"The first few months," Anne explained, "He ignored everyone. If you tried to speak to him, he'd look at you like you were some kind of bug."

"So what changed?" Amalia asked, curious.

"Well," said Callidora in a hushed voice, leaning closer, "Some of the older students started, you know, picking on him. It was obvious he was different - and he wasn't really _respectful_ to anyone except the professors."

"He was bullied?"

Callidora snorted. "Not exactly. No one knows what he did to them, but all of a sudden it was clear that they were petrified of him."

"I see."

"That's not the end of it," Anne added seriously, "Eleven-year-olds don't go around scaring _sixth_ years-" Amalia raised her eyebrows at that, "Without people noticing."

"He got in trouble?"

"Someone must have talked to the professors, because there was an enquiry and everything." Anne continued, "But nothing came of it - suddenly, all the boys - Dolohov, Rosier, and the rest-"

"-Who previously didn't want anything to do with him," added Callidora.

"-They all testified that he was the true victim, had only acted in self-defence, and so on..."

"And that _worked_?"

Anne nodded. "He didn't get punished, for whatever he did. And ever since that scandal, his record's been spotless. It's like he's a different person."

"Or not so different, after all." Amalia hummed thoughtfully. So it had taken Riddle some time to cultivate that friendly mask of his? Beneath his handsome face, however, was someone much uglier. She felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought that she, alone, had broken through that facade... and then immediately a wave of confusion. Why was she happy about that? She'd spent the last three years trying to stay out of danger. She wasn't a masochist - so why did she care if he treated her differently...?

She shook herself out of her inconvenient thoughts. "Anyway," she said decisively to her two friends and the traitor, "I want you to keep on acting like nothing happened."

"But-" Anne started.

"Do you have a plan?" Callidora asked shrewdly, eyes bright. She seemed to thrive on the intrigue.

Amalia waved her wand and a nonverbal spell made the book, potion and extra bandages fly back into her trunk, which closed with a _thunk._ "Of course." she said calmly. She reclined against the headboard, sighing in contentment as her tired muscles relaxed. She closed her eyes. "This means war."

Callidora enthusiastically snapped a theatrical salute, while Anne just shook her head, trying to hide a smile.

"You won't win." Charlotte's voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but Amalia thought she detected a tiny note of resentment. It seemed there was yet another person in Slytherin who was hiding an uglier side under an angelic exterior.

Amalia cracked one eye open, but Charlotte avoided her cold gaze, studying the pattern on the carpet instead.

 _A traitor and a liar... but mostly a coward_ , Amalia mused.

"Why would you say that?" she asked quietly. Anne and Callidora looked between the two girls in bewilderment, bemused by the sudden change in the atmosphere.

Charlotte just shook her head, watching the green-patterned sock on her right foot rub her left ankle in a nervous tic. She regretted speaking at all.

There was a moment of tense silence... Then Amalia gave a light laugh. "Don't worry so much, Charl'. It takes more than a little ambush to put me down." she swung her legs of the bed and sauntered over to Charlotte, looming over her. She flinched as Amalia rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. To Anne and Callidora, it must have looked like a comforting gesture - but there was nothing comforting about Amalia's vice-like grip, her nails biting into her narrow shoulders. "I don't forgive easily," Amalia explained with an edge to her voice that made Charlotte look up with wide eyes, "So it's not like I can just let this go. You understand that, right?"

"Y-yes..." she squeaked, frozen in place.

Charlotte felt her heart-rate speed up as a strange pressure constricted her breathing. Was this... magic? Only the strongest witches and wizards could make their power felt without a conduit like a wand - besides from the unpredictable bursts that everyone experienced in childhood, of course. Amalia was... really scary when she was angry.

"Don't be scared," Amalia urged with a scary smile, as if she'd heard her thoughts, and released her shoulder at last, patting it gently instead. "I protect my _friends_." there was a not-so-subtle threat in her honey-sweet tone.

Charlotte regretted getting involved at all. She sniffed. "I'm sorr-"

"Shh," interrupted Amalia, before the idiotic girl spoilt everything and blurted out a confession. She was conscious of Anne and Callidora's ignorant, bemused gazes on her back, "There's no need for that." She reined in the urge to strangle the girl with an effort. Honestly, how could she take pleasure in revenge if she didn't even fight back? It was pathetically easy to scare her into submission. It wasn't even satisfying.

A kernel of an idea started forming in her mind. She turned away from Charlotte and smiled at the other two. "Let's all get some sleep, shall we? It's late."

Callidora blinked as the tension which had inexplicably filled the air just moments before seemed to suddenly disappear. Had she just imagined it...?

Anne shrugged and crossed the room to her own bed. She sighed. "You've only been here a week," she told Amalia as she started laying out her clothes for the next day. Amalia noticed they were casual robes and suddenly remembered it was the weekend. "Skipping roll call, duelling, making enemies... Declaring war? Don't you think you should slow down?"

"I think it's awesome." announced Callidora. "Things haven't been this interesting since you tried to perm your hair."

"What?" laughed Amalia, as Anne turned beet red and chucked a pillow at Callidora.

In a cheerful mood, three of the four girls fell asleep soon after that. But Charlotte stayed awake longer into the night, dreading whatever revenge Amalia had in store for her...

* * *

The next day dawned bright and early, and Amalia rose with the sun as usual. Overnight, her wounds had healed well; there was barely a trace of the burns on her wrists, and the cut on her shoulder had already faded to just a red line, easily hidden by her clothes.

It was just dawn - the others would sleep for a long time yet since it was the weekend. She felt tired after the events of the previous day, but there was so much to do, and she was looking forward to it. She rolled out of bed stealthily, and drew her wand. First, she cast a useful little spell that would muffle sound, and then stalked over to Charlotte's bed. The little traitor was snoring peacefully.

 _"Silencio."_ Amalia muttered, and then cheerfully shook her awake.

Predictably, she yelped as she became aware of Amalia looming over her with a scary smile, and then grew confused when she realised her yelp was completely silent. She pawed at her throat in panic as she realised she couldn't make a sound.

Amalia rolled her eyes at her thrashing. "Relax." She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. "I estimate we have about two hours before the others wake up - get dressed."

Looking like she was on the way to the gallows, Charlotte complied, her mouth downturned and her eyes shifty.

As soon as they were both presentable, Amalia led her out of the dormitory, through the Common Room and into the dungeons, where she soon found an empty room. It may have been used as a classroom at some stage, but for now it was only full of dusty broken desks and other debris. She waved her wand and cleared a space, sweeping all the junk up against a wall. Then, she motioned Charlotte to come into the room, and stood opposite her with a relaxed posture that contrasted sharply with the other girl's tenseness.

 _"Finito,"_ Amalia said, ending the Silencing Charm.

"What are you going to do to me?" squeaked Charlotte immediately, hugging her sides as if she wanted to disappear completely.

Amalia gave a wicked grin. "I just have some questions before we begin."

Charlotte sniffed, "B-begin?"

Amalia ignored her. She was ninety-five percent sure most of her 'scared-girl' act was just that - an act. "First," she started cheerfully, "Let's start with an easy one. Was it Riddle who put you up to it?"

Charlotte shuffled in place.

"Lestrange, then? He asked you to do it?"

Charlotte seemed even more reluctant to speak, telling Amalia she was on the right track.

"Who taught you the Body-Bind Curse?"

"I already knew it." Charlotte said resentfully.

Amalia raised her eyebrow. "I see. Was it your first time using it?"

She nodded miserably.

"One last question - and this one is the most important. Were you promised anything in exchange for helping them?"

"... No."

"Then, did they threaten you?" Charlotte seemed to hesitate. "Did Lestrange or Riddle threaten you?" Amalia asked again, impatient.

"... No." Charlotte was looking less and less scared, and more annoyed by the minute.

Amalia smirked. "So then... Did you simply do it because you wanted to?"

A baleful glare was her only reply.

Amalia laughed. "You must really hate me, huh?" she folded her arms and tapped her chin ruminatively with her wand. It wasn't really a surprise that Charlotte hated her - Amalia was an outsider, who had just arrived at Hogwarts, yet she was already fast friends with Anne and Callidora. It was immature jealousy, that was all.

"Clearly, you have some issues with me you should sort out." she stated calmly. "Raise your wand."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Slowly, Charlotte took her wand out of her pocket, staring at Amalia the whole time. "Why?"

"There's something you should know about me," she started coolly, "I don't enjoy getting cursed in the back. If you wanted to curse me, you should have done it to my _face,_ and you should have made sure I stayed down. So... why don't you try again?" she stretched her arms almost as wide as her wicked smile. "Take your best shot - if you can."

An almost invisible bead of sweat formed on Charlotte's temple, and she licked her lips nervously. "I don't want-"

"Here, I'll demonstrate," Amalia offered generously, before slashing her wand with lazy confidence, " _Petrificus totalus_."

Charlotte didn't even have time to twitch before the spell hit her, instantly making her muscles seize in paralysis. She teetered for a moment, eyes wide and shocked, before falling forward and feeling a lurch of panic as the hard stone floor rushed towards her very fragile and frozen nose-

" _Immobulus_ ," sighed Amalia, and Charlotte paused, her face ten centimeters from smashing into the unforgiving ground. "Really, you just suck the fun out of everything," the other girl muttered, releasing Charlotte from both spells non-verbally, "At least make it a challenge..."

Charlotte gasped, her knees hitting the dusty ground as she tried to process what had happened. She'd been entirely unable to react... at all-

"Unpleasant, isn't it?" Amalia said cheerfully, "At least now you know. Honestly, this is precisely why it's important to teach students how to duel."

Charlotte found a shred of pride from somewhere and glared balefully from her position on the floor, "You couldn't do anything when I hexed you," she spat.

Amalia laughed at her defiance, and shrugged, "That's true, that's true. It _was_ my fault for turning my back on you in the first place. Rest assured, I won't make the same mistake again. That's not why I'm annoyed, though."

"It's not?"

Amalia flapped a hand at her, "Charl', you're speaking to a witch who lived in _Knockturn_ for three years. I'm more annoyed that I actually got cursed by _you_ \- with something as boring as _petrificus totalus,_ no less - within a week of being at school. I must be going soft."

Charlotte's face was the picture of bewilderment as she tried to process this. "Wait, so... you're not actually annoyed at me-?"

Amalia shrugged. "Okay, a bit. You're a traitorous bitch who doesn't deserve to stand in Dora and Anne's shadow-"

Charlotte winced.

"- But mostly I'm just annoyed with myself."

"I... see..." Charlotte decided to ignore the part about being a bitch for now. All things considered, perhaps she deserved it... "Wait." a thought suddenly caught up with her, "You lived in Knockturn- _Knockturn Alley_ \- for three years?!" her voice rose to almost a squeak at the end of her sentence.

"Mm. You ever been?"

Charlotte shook her head rapidly. Her parents had told her dreadful tales about Diagon Alley's most unsavoury offshoot. It was apparently full of Dark Wizards, creatures, beggars, halfbreeds... and even _Squibs._ She shuddered delicately.

"It _was_ educational." nodded Amalia. "Which brings us to the real reason why you're here." she glanced at her watch. "We have about an hour left."

"For what?" asked Charlotte suspiciously, clambering slowly to her feet again.

Amalia looked businesslike as she rolled up her sleeves, tossing her hair back with a determined gleam in her eyes. "The next time you try to curse me it will be with a _much_ less boring spell. _That's_ why we're here."

Charlotte blinked, nonplussed.

"I'm going to teach you a couple of useful jinxes," Amalia explained impatiently, rolling her eyes at Charlotte's blank expression. "But first, you need to also learn some basic blocks, or you won't last three seconds against me. I assume you can cast _protego,_ at least? It's horribly _ordinary,"_ she said that as if it actually offended her, "But it'll have to suffice for now. Cast it and let's see how strong your barrier is."

"What?"

"Cast. It. Just do it."

"I... - P- _protego_?" a wavering blue-tinted barrier shimmered into existence, barely covering her upper body.

Amalia snorted. _"Mordeo,"_ she said in a bored tone, the Stinging Hex breaking through the barrier instantly.

She was rewarded with Charlotte leaping about a foot into the air and squeaking, clutching her arm.

"Oh, stop it with the dramatics," Amalia said breezily. "It won't even leave a mark." It was pleasant to get revenge in this small way. Even though she wasn't using even _half_ of the power she would usually have. It wasn't enough to leave a mark, but the pain was real enough, about the same as a sting of a flicked dishcloth. It would last less than three seconds. She wasn't a _sadist,_ after all.

Clearly, Charlotte didn't agree, her eyes watering as she whimpered pitifully.

"Again." ordered Amalia sternly.

To her surprise, Charlotte obeyed without comment, and this time, her barrier was slightly stronger.

* * *

One hour later found them both back in the dormitories, just in time to see Callidora and Anne waking up.

When asked where they'd been, Amalia shrugged and simply said, "Library," but couldn't help whistling cheerfully as she waited for the other two girls to get dressed.

The impromptu lesson hadn't exactly been pleasant - Charlotte was resentful and pathetic in equal measure - but she had shown marked improvement even over the short time they'd practiced, and Amalia knew she would be grateful on the day she ever had to defend herself. They hadn't had time to get to offensive spells, but Amalia wasn't too worried. They had time for that - and she wanted Anne and Callidora to join in. It seemed prudent, especially since their opponent was Riddle and his cronies. He had proven that he wasn't above trying to get to her through her friends.

Then again, she _also_ wasn't above using others in their little war. Rosier was only the beginning...

Charlotte had stopped flinching every time Amalia looked at her about half way through their training, and now she seemed to be quite willing to ignore her existence. She gave only monosyllabic answers to Anne and Callidora's morning greetings, and quickly crawled back into bed, facing the wall with the covers drawn up to her chin.

"Don't you want breakfast?" Anne asked, puzzled by this behaviour.

Charlotte mumbled something about feeling tired, and then ignored all of them.

Amalia was trying to think up an excuse before Anne and Callidora suspected her of ill-treating their friend (... _pet_... she sneered internally), when Callidora caught Anne's eye and shrugged, jerking a head at the door. Amalia followed them out curiously.

"I wonder if she's feeling sick," Anne wondered, once they were on their way through the quiet castle halls.

Callidora rolled her eyes. "You know how she is," she said sourly (Callidora was never in a good mood in the morning), "She's probably sulking about something again. It's just a cry for attention."

Anne sighed, seemingly accepting the explanation.

Amalia suppressed a smile. _Really, it's just too easy._

With Charlotte taken care of, she only had to deal with Lestrange and Dolohov. She was determined that everyone involved would learn immediately that there were consequences to targeting her...

"By the way," Callidora said as they ascended a staircase, leaving the chilly dungeons in favour of the warmly-lit entrance hall, "Isn't it going to be awkward when you, you know, see him this morning?"

"Why?" Amalia hadn't really thought about it - she'd been too busy scheming.

"Are you still going to act like you're being friendly?" Callidora seemed to still be having trouble believing she and Riddle were really enemies.

Amalia considered. "I'll follow his lead, I guess," she said at last, as they walked into the Hall. Her eyes swept the table, but they were some of the first students there, and so it wasn't strange that he hadn't arrived yet.

Something she'd also noticed during the past week was that Riddle usually arrived as late as possible to breakfast, and his mood was even worse than Dora's. She inferred that he was just not a morning person.

Though she tried not to show it, she couldn't help looking up every time a new knot of students entered the hall. When Riddle did finally arrive, flanked as usual by his posse of "friends", he even later than usual. Amalia noticed with a smug glow of satisfaction that he seemed to be walking rather stiffly - no doubt compensating for his injured leg. Perhaps his magical skills didn't extend to healing - a childish oversight for someone who clearly had a lot of interest in duelling. She ignored him as he limped past, buttering her toast. He seemed determined to ignore her too, not even glancing her way as he passed to sit further down the table, in his usual spot. She _almost_ felt disappointed.

After breakfast Callidora insisted they take a walk down to the Lake, seeing as Amalia hadn't yet had a chance to tour the grounds. She was keen to start on the book Binns had recommended, but the weather was warm and everyone seemed keen to enjoy the outdoors. They took a slow stroll to the Owlery, and then continued on to the Quidditch pitch, where students from Gryffindor were getting in their first practice of the first season.

According to Anne, who'd been giving Amalia a running commentary of each new place they visited, the Gryffindors were historically the most zealous at sports, though not necessarily the most successful. Slytherins didn't practice as hard, but their ambition and ruthlessness ensured that they won about half the time anyway. Ravenclaws occasionally put together a good team, but were more interested in academics, particularly around exam times. Hufflepuffs seemed to lack a competitive streak entirely, and so were usually bottom of the rankings. They didn't lack skill, but rather the motivation. Their supporters often pre-empted the inevitable and threw their support behind one of the other houses, cheering them on good-naturedly.

Anne yawned, leaning against the stands as they watched the players fooling around with the quaffle far above. "I can't tell - are they any good this year?"

Callidora seemed rather keen as she watched the players zipping about far above, an excited gleam in her eye. "Mm. We might have some trouble. Longbottom even made the team..."

Amalia chuckled. "He's the last one I would have let anywhere near a bludger - look, he's wearing a Beater's kit."

"...suits him..."

"I didn't quite catch that?" Amalia asked blithely.

Callidora went a little pink. "Nothing." she said hastily.

"...I see."

Anne yawned again, tearing her eyes from the Gryffindors to turn back expectantly to Callidora. "Can we head back now?"

Callidora sighed, casting an envious look at the line of spare brooms left on the side of the pitch. "I guess so."

Apparently, she'd tried out the previous year to be a Chaser for the Slytherin team, but Walburga Black had bullied the team captain into refusing her a place out of spite. Amalia really couldn't see the attraction of flying around on a flimsy-looking stick used for household cleaning, but she tried to be sympathetic. "Will you try again this year?" she asked.

Callidora pulled a face. "This year it's even less likely; Walburga _herself_ is the new captain. Ah - it's so unfair!" she scowled and led the way back towards the castle.

On the way, Amalia saw her chance to confront Dolohov - he was walking with Avery and Nott across the clock tower courtyard.

"I'll see you later," she hurriedly told Callidora and Anne, and rushed to intercept him even as she got a startled "Er... Okay...?" from Anne.

He froze when she stopped in front of him, and looked down guiltily.

"Hey, Amalia," greeted Avery with about half of his usual bravado. The falseness in his voice told her the rest of the boys in Riddle's group must have heard _some_ version of the events of the previous night already. At least they felt bad about it.

She ignored him. "Dolohov," she said instead, sweetly, "Could I have a word?"

"Sure," he mumbled, and followed her miserably around the corner, to a deserted stretch of corridor just out of sight of the other students that were milling about.

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I - are you okay?" he asked awkwardly into the silence. "After last night - I mean, I didn't see-"

She suddenly realised that he wasn't aware of the outcome of the duel. He hadn't seen her win. He'd only seen the before and after, making it seem as though they'd _both_ stopped - like Riddle had stopped before he hurt her seriously. Of course, Riddle wasn't about to admit to the truth of the matter.

"I thought we were friends." she sighed, crafting a hurt expression, "And yet, you actually _helped_ Riddle attack me..." She rubbed her arm as if the healed wound still pained her.

"I - I didn't want to!" he assured her hurriedly. "He... _made_ me-"

"He did?" polite disbelief coloured her voice, and she turned her full attention on him, eyes wide and innocent. "How?"

Dolohov abruptly closed his mouth, wincing before he said something he wasn't supposed to. "I'm sorry." he said instead, sounding sincerely miserable.

Amalia surveyed him for a few moments - _Damn, he's got these boys well trained_ , she sneered to herself, before nodding and favouring him with a small smile. "I believe you." she told him solemnly, and was rewarded by his relieved look. "And furthermore... I forgive you. Riddle really is despicable, the way he treats people," she sniffed as if holding back tears, "He's so manipulative..."

Dolohov looked torn, hesitating between his fear-induced loyalty to Riddle and Amalia's puppy-dog eyes. "Amalia, I-" he breathed dramatically, "Don't worry, I'll - it won't happen again..."

She blinked innocently at him. "Really?"

He nodded eagerly, missing the hint of smugness in Amalia's gaze. He even had the audacity to step closer and tentatively take her hand. She let him, raising her eyebrow at his forwardness. "Is there anything I can do, to make up for it?" _Unbelievable,_ she thought dryly, _He's using this as an opportunity to flirt._

Nevertheless, it gave her an idea.

"Perhaps you can help me..." she said, cocking her head at him and placing a hand over his.

"Anything," he said eagerly.

She smirked. With that promise, the charade could finally be dropped. About time too, because a muscle above her eye was beginning to twitch. "Very well." She pulled her hand from his grasp and folded her arms instead, fixing him with a steady gaze. "I want you to fetch Lestrange." She said abruptly, "And have him meet me at the greenhouses in one hour." At this time of day, that part of the grounds would be deserted.

His eager smile dropped off his face instantly. "What? ... Why?"

Her gaze narrowed, and he almost took an instinctive step backwards.

"You said 'anything', didn't you?" she snapped.

"Yes, but-"

"Well, this is what I want." she interrupted him. "I just want to have a chat with him, that's all. Consider your debt... forty percent absolved, for this." She thought that was pretty generous.

Dolohov looked uncertain. "He won't come."

"Make him."

"How? Wh-what should I say?"

She rolled her eyes, irritated now. "Why don't you tell him Riddle's waiting, and losing what little patience he has. That should get him moving."

"I -" Dolohov blinked helplessly a couple of times before admitting defeat. "... Okay."

"Good." she flashed him an dismissive smile and turned to go. "And don't keep me waiting," she warned over her shoulder, " _I_ don't have much patience, either."

Watching her stalk off with a jaunty sway of her hips, Dolohov shivered as if feeling a sudden chill.

* * *

True to his word, Dolohov saw to it that Lestrange sloped out of the castle barely an hour later, looking annoyed but entirely unaware of the ambush that awaited him next to the greenhouses.

Since she wasn't a fan of attacking while someone's back was turned, she stepped into the open in front of him once she was certain he'd come alone.

He stopped abruptly, tensing as he saw her wand held loosely in one hand, a subtle threat.

"Hello there, Lestrange-" she started in a friendly tone, before he interrupted her.

"The fuck do you want?" he snarled, drawing his wand in a fluid movement.

Her gaze sharpened. "We need to talk." she said simply, dropping the smile. Charm was clearly not the way to go with this one.

"I have nothing to say to you," he spat, and turned on his heel, making for the door he'd just come through. She noticed he kept one eye on her over his shoulder as he walked, and hid a smile. It was nice to finally not be underestimated. Perhaps he was smarter than she'd originally thought.

" _Colloportus_ ," she cast quickly, rewarded by the door slamming shut and a heavy bolt being pulled into place with a heavy _thud._

At her word, Lestrange had spun about, raising his wand in case he needed to block a spell. His reflexes were good. As soon as he noticed the target wasn't him, he switched from defense to offence in an instant, snarling, " _Everte statum_!", a spell which would have blasted Amalia off her feet if she hadn't blocked it instinctively with her favourite barrier _("Circumcingo!"),_ which had the benefit of protecting her from all sides, whilst being stronger than a simple _Protego._

Not flinching, Lestrange narrowed his eyes and slashed his wand, sending a Dark curse her way with crude force. She identified the incantation as one of the few that might breach her barrier, and said calmly, " _Deflecto_ ," instead, changing the trajectory of the spell instead of nullifying it. A pane in the greenhouse next to her shattered in an explosion of glass as it was hit by the curse.

Lestrange paused, clearly frustrated at her unchanged, serene expression.

"Well, you're certainly putting up more of a fight than Charlotte did," Amalia remarked, more to herself than to him.

But for the first time, his sneer seemed to falter. "What?" He said sharply.

Amalia watched him carefully. "Charlotte," she repeated slowly, "She didn't put up as much of a fight earlier."

He swore furiously. "What did- You didn't- You _bitch-!"_

Amalia hid her surprise - so it wasn't as one-sided as she'd been led to believe?

She stalled, drawing out the silence lazily before remarking casually, "That's right... She wasn't at breakfast, was she?" She shrugged with exaggerated confusion. "I wonder what happened..."

Her implied meaning was not lost on him. His eyes widened, and for the first time she read fear in them. It would have been sweet in other circumstances. "Leave her out of this!" he snarled, furious.

"I wasn't the one who involved her, in the first place." she reminded him, and was rewarded by a fleeting look of guilt in his dark eyes.

"If you hurt her-" he started threateningly, but his words were hollow and he knew it.

She shook her head, interrupting him. "I'm not interested in bullying _Charlotte_ of all people," she said whitheringly, "Really, that girl's just not worth it..."

His throat worked at her disparaging tone, but he said nothing, obviously relieved at her professed disinterest.

"Even so," Amalia continued seriously, "I share a room with her. If you let her become a tool in this fight again," she warned, "I won't hold back."

She met his dark gaze and waited for him to give a stiff nod.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Amalia said, satisfied. "The... animosity between us is because of Riddle, but it doesn't have to be that way... We don't have to be enemies."

One look at his glare told her that this was one battle she wouldn't win. Lestrange would not be charmed to her side, nor did he seem to take kindly to intimidation. He had picked Riddle because he was a malicious git, and nothing Amalia offered would change that. But, perhaps he would think twice before getting involved again, at least for Charlotte's sake, and that was good enough for now.

She shot him a grin and inclined her head. "I guess that's all that needs to be said." she waved her wand and the door behind him sprang open.

He sent her one last hateful glare, and then disappeared into the castle without another word, anger etched in the tenseness of his shoulders. She wondered if he was going to storm right off to check on Charlotte. Or perhaps the idiotic girl didn't know of his feelings - he treated her like an annoying bug in public, usually, and ignored her the rest of the time. She'd never even seen them speak to each other in class.

Amalia remained behind for a short while to repair the damaged window, mulling over her progress. All in all, she thought she'd done well with her scheming, so far. Who knew school drama would be this fun?

* * *

Just after lunch, Amalia finally got her wish and escaped to the library, finally cracking open the book Binns had recommended, _Maudlin's Mysteries of Magicke_. Since it was on reserve, she couldn't remove it from the library, but she found she didn't mind.

Once she'd retrieved it from the bored-looking librarian, she ensconced herself in a corner of the library, using the same table Anne and Callidora usually sat at. It was quiet and blissfully devoid of other people; most students didn't have a reason to go to the library on the first weekend back at school.

Starting at the prologue, she propped her chin up on her steepled fingers and began reading by the bright sunlight filtering through the velvet drapes of the window. The book was heavy, the yellowed pages well-thumbed and occasionally spotted with unidentifiable stains. A musty smell rose from the binding, and she wondered how old it really was.

The only sounds was the distant ambient noise of the castle and a dry rustle as she turned a page, soon getting absorbed. The old language and unfamiliar, flowery style of writing was at first a challenge - she had to reread every few sentences to puzzle out the meanings. Whoever "Maximus Maudlin" was, he certainly had a flair for the dramatic - the first three pages alone were spent warning the reader that they would die in horrible ways if they pursued his collection of unsolved mysteries. The next few pages then exhorted the reader to " _abandon thy plebeian whims of apathie and worriment; steele thy heart and harden thou thy wandering eye; thou mightest yet find thyself number'd among the great hoste of lusty pioneers, such as I_." She didn't think she was the "lusty pioneer-ing" type, but eagerly turned to the contents page. It was decorated with fantastical moving illustrations of strange beasts and glittering hoards of treasure in the margins.

The book seemed to be a vast and unfiltered list of myths, legends and rumours all pertaining to Great Britain, from unconfirmed sightings of ghosts to an immortal dragon apparently living in the Thames. To her delight and surprise, about a third of the book was dedicated to just Hogwarts and its surrounds. It seemed that as a famous place of magical learning, it had become a serious attraction for amateur adventure-seekers. There were myths and rumours of hidden rooms, strange creatures, wonderful treasures and otherworldly knowledge, all apparently hidden in Hogwart's labyrinthine corridors. The Forbidden Forest also contained an entire chapter on ancient moving stones, a magical orchid that could grant you a glimpse into the future, and an ancient civilisation of cannibalistic imps that lived in crystal tunnels. Even the Great Lake was purported to host the animagus of none other than Godric Gryffindor himself.

After a while, she got up to retrieve one of the library's many copies of "Hogwarts: A History", thinking it was a good way of filtering through Maudlin's crazy ramblings. She thought she understood Binns' purpose in recommending the book; it was filled with so many impossible and ludicrous tales, that to find the kernel of "truth" - the origin of the rumours - much more research was needed. Basically, the book was a useful starting-point; a springboard to other texts in a search for fact. It would be an exercise in discerning truth from lies. For various reasons, so much about her own past was a mystery to her. She'd reached a dead-end in figuring out her own history, and it depressed her. This would be a useful - a _necessary_ \- distraction.

Whenever she found a correlation or mention of something in both books, she would note it down for further investigation. As the hours ticked by, she found she had several promising leads already.

She was eagerly noting down the location of a tapestry on the fifth floor that purported to point the way towards " _a treasure propitious in extremitie_ ", (which could only mean something awesome) when a calm, male voice interrupted her.

"That looks like an interesting read."

She couldn't help her startled jump, looking around with wide eyes.

Riddle was leaning nonchalantly against a bookshelf, watching her.

She tried to calm her racing heart with a few deep breaths. How long had he been standing there?

"I hope you're not planning to ambush me again so soon," she said lightly, trying to hide her surprise.

She could tell by his smirk that it hadn't worked. "Not today," he replied smoothly. "And trust me, next time will end differently."

She glanced at her watch and closed the book. It was almost time for dinner. "Well, it'll certainly start differently," she said drily.

"What do you mean?"

She pulled the chair out slightly so that she was facing him more directly, but remained seated. She refused to be cowed by his sudden appearance. "I've already taken steps to ensure you can't repeat the same tactics." she informed him. "If you're planning another ambush, you'd better do it yourself."

He snorted, his mouth curved in an arrogant, crooked smile. " 'Taken steps'?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. It was laughably easy. You've known these people for _five years,_ but they really don't feel _any_ loyalty, do they?" her voice dripped with fake sympathy. "I was done before lunch."

His smile slipped off his face, and was momentarily replaced with something uglier. She could see him trying to figure out if she was telling the truth, and if so, what she'd done. Then his face was carefully blank again. "Sounds like a waste of time."

She hid a smile. "We'll see."

He pushed himself away from the shelves gracefully and approached her slowly, looking down at her with unreadable, dark eyes.

Under the table, her hand drifted close to her wand.

Then he smiled.

His face softened into an expression of such friendliness, such _warmth,_ that she was momentarily taken aback. The transformation of his face was uncanny. He looked... _angelic._ If she didn't know him she might have been taken in by it. But then, after a moment, she finally saw what had been there all along; those dark eyes, long lashes framing a blackness which gleamed with a bottomless malice. And yet...

She had to admit - there was something about him that _drew her in_. That fascinated her.

It wasn't just his perfectly sculpted ivory skin, that narrow slash of a mouth that curved upward in one _hell_ of a smirk... There was something in the way he was watching her - like _nothing else existed_ \- like she held some kind of answer to something he'd been searching for. The sheer intensity of having his focus narrowed on her...

It made her heart unsteady, her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was because he usually looked so aloof and cold, indifferent... bored and apathetic. But when he was looking at her, he seemed to come alive.

The pure intensity of his smile and his stare rendered her momentarily mute, and that surprised her. She _always_ had something to say.

 _Damn_ , she thought numbly, struck by an epiphany like a lightning bolt from the blue, _Could it be that I - I actually... He-_ Unbidden, pleasant tendrils of desire uncurled slowly in the depths of her stomach as she gazed into his pitiless eyes.

He leaned over her, still smiling, one hand braced on the arm-rest of her chair as he brought his face close to hers, until she could make out the individual, long eyelashes half hiding his pupils in a sultry expression.

She swallowed the moisture that had flooded her mouth.

She shifted back instinctively. _Get a grip, Amalia!_ she told herself in dismay, _You do **not** feel attracted to him! You just don't!_

"Don't get too confident, Gray," he warned her in a low, melodic voice, still smiling that predatory smile without any idea what it was _doing_ to her. Or maybe he did. He probably did.

A shiver crept up her spine as his obsidian eyes trailed oh-so-slowly over her face, lingering on her slightly-open mouth before flicking back up to her startled gaze.

"This is only the beginning."

She only remembered to breathe again once the sound of his fading footsteps had completely disappeared, and he was long out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. It may have seemed like Amalia's able to manipulate everyone in this chapter a little too easily... but just wait and see. Like Tom says, this is only the beginning. Her struggles are far from over. The future Dark Lord is not so easily beaten, after all...
> 
> Also, she has to deal with her epiphany that she's really attracted to him (but then, who wouldn't be, amiright? the EVILSEXINESS is inescapable) while at this point he would probably cheerfully murder her if he thought he could get away with it. Despite his other... feelings ;)
> 
> So stay tuned for... more EVILSEXINESS, dangerous encounters, cryptic mysteries... and insane sexual tension! Haha


	8. Lies and Innuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another week passes at Hogwarts...

Sunday passed with comparatively little drama, all things considered.

Riddle had gone back to treating her politely in public, Charlotte had stopped sulking, and Amalia got quite a lot of research done between lunch and dinner in the library. She had just started on her punishment essay for Professor Fairchilde when the back on her neck prickled with the sense she was being watched.

Suspicious, she whipped her head around instantly, wary of an ambush after Riddle had so successfully snuck up on her the previous day. But this time it was only Rosier, hesitating nearby.

She exhaled in relief and hitched a smile on her face, hoping it didn't look too forced. She couldn't help it if her nerves were a little frayed after everything that had happened.

"Hey," he said quietly, and approaching, evidently deciding to end his dithering.

She rolled her shoulders, working out a crick in her neck. "Hi, Rosier. What's up?"

He glanced shiftily around, but they were alone. He slid into the chair across from her. "What... happened on Friday?"

She put down her quill carefully. "I would have thought Riddle's kept you up to speed." she smirked at him. "Aren't you... _friends?"_

He fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, and then chose to ignore her comment. "Riddle said his plan worked." he prodded, "But... Lestrange and Dolohov are acting weird, and you seem-" he frowned, trailing off.

"Perfectly intact?" offered Amalia calmly. She pretended to wipe away a fake tear as her voice dripped with poisonous sarcasm. "I'm just concealing the emotional trauma deep within."

He blinked, unamused at her flippancy. "Did you get my warning?"

She nodded. She hadn't forgotten about the note that had arrived via owl on Friday morning. "Mm. Thanks for that. Though it wasn't _much_ of a warning, to be honest. Next time, _specifics_ would be appreciated." she continued writing her essay, her quill scratching the parchment as she wrote in her messy scrawl. Since it was an essay about why duelling was unnecessary, she was determined to make it extra messy.

Rosier shifted nervously. "I... didn't know Yaxley was involved," he admitted sheepishly.

"Neither did I," Amalia said dryly, dotting an i so carelessly, she almost punched a hole through the parchment, "Which is the only reason why the ambush worked. Embarrassing, really."

"So you _did_ actually get taken?" breathed Rosier, looking shocked. "Then, what happened?"

Amalia grimaced. "There was brief time that I was... incapacitated. There were ropes. It didn't end well." she absently rubbed at her wrists - the skin there was still pinkish, but had almost completely healed.

He drew himself up, looking grimly satisfied. "I hope now you realise how foolish it is to go up against Riddle-"

"It didn't end well _for Riddle,"_ she corrected absently, scratching out a misspelling with ugly slashes of ink. She looked critically at it and decided to smudge the ink, too, wiping the back of her hand deliberately across the page. "We duelled. I won. We went back to the castle."

"You _won?"_ the disbelief in his voice was somewhat insulting.

She rolled her eyes. "Believe what you want. You're welcome to ask _him_ for clarification."

 _Not going_ _to happen_ , Rosier thought immediately. "But Lestrange and Dolohov said-"

She snorted. "I'm sure they had lots to say. They were face-down in the grass for the entire conflict. I suppose they neglected to mention that?"

Rosier's surprised expression told her everything she needed to know.

She snorted. "Typical."

He was silent for a long time after that, mulling it all over. Amalia finished up her essay and then pushed it across the table to Rosier, who blinked and looked up, startled out of his thoughts.

"Tell me what you think," Amalia said with an proud grin.

Rosier looked down at the essay and started scanning it with a slight frown.

"Your handwriting is horrible," he informed her before flipping over the page. She shrugged, fiddling with her quill as she waited.

He read to the end of the second page and sighed. "Gray," he said wearily, "You are going to get detention for this."

She burst into laughter. "Is it that bad?"

"It's... very..." he struggled to find a word to describe it, before settling on, "Sarcastic."

"It's a matter of principle," she explained, taking the essay back and stuffing it unceremoniously into her bag, crumpling the paper. "If I have to turn in an essay about why duelling is useless, then I'll at least make it entertaining to read. It's fiction, after all."

"What else are you busy with?" Rosier asked, changing the subject. He was looking at the stack of notes she'd made next to her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ and _Maudlin's Mysteries_.

She yawned. "I'm researching legends and secrets at Hogwarts. It's quite fun."

Rosier twisted his head to read the parchment on the top of the pile, and then his gaze flicked back to her. "Riddle's already found this - the Hidden Corridor."

She scowled, looking a little put-out. "Oh, really? He takes an interest in these mysteries too?"

Rosier shrugged. "Just... Hogwarts in general, I guess." He didn't tell the whole truth - that Riddle was _obsessed_ with Hogwarts. It went beyond boredom or curiosity. He was possessive over its secrets, too... _This may spell even more conflict between them_ , he fretted.

She frowned at the parchment in question, and then crumpled it up with a sigh. "Well - where does it lead? The corridor?"

Rosier shook his head. "Nowhere. It's enchanted to be an infinite loop - Riddle spent an entire night in our third year figuring out how to get back."

"That's... disappointing." She looked at the other pile of notes and bit her lip.

Rosier was following her train of thought. "He's probably looked into many of those, as well."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "There's got to be _something_ in here he hasn't got to yet." she riffled through the pack and pulled out a sheet, turning it over. "Here - The Come-and-Go room. It was only briefly mentioned... But it seems pretty amazing. Did he find this one?"

"No." Rosier answered just a little too quickly.

She saw right through him. "Damn." she muttered. "And, judging by your expression, it's not a dead end."

Rosier felt unnerved by how easily she read him, and quailed at the thought of Riddle's reaction if he knew he'd just inadvertently given away his secret hideout. If she decided to follow and figure it out for herself, she would know where they had their secret meetings...

More to distract her than anything else, he quickly reached over and tugged the pile of scrawled notes closer, glancing through them quickly.

She watched him, one eyebrow raised.

"Here," he said at last, triumphantly pointing at a paragraph she'd jotted down in passing. "I know for a fact Riddle hasn't _touched_ this."

His ploy at distracting her worked, and she eagerly scanned it with renewed interest. "The Moving Stones - in the Forbidden Forest. '... _epic quest... treasure hidden by one of the Founders_ -' " She looked up. "It sounds interesting. Why hasn't Riddle looked into it?"

Rosier gave a small smile. "He doesn't like trekking through forests, I guess."

Amalia snorted disparagingly. "I suppose he does seem more like an indoor animal, doesn't he? Very well. This is where I will concentrate my efforts." she stood up and began packing away all her notes.

 _At least she's not focussing on the Come-and-Go Room_ , Rosier mused, relieved. The magical room was also known as the Room of Requirement... and it was definitely not a secret Riddle would be willing to share. This was a dangerous game he was involved in.

She shot him a friendly smile as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "It's time for dinner. Let's go?"

* * *

As Amalia's second week at Hogwarts slowly unfolded, things started to take on a kind of predictability that she'd never experienced before. It was reassuring to have classes every day, in the same time slots, to do mundane things like homework and have regular meals.

It made even Riddle's bullying bearable.

And he _was_ bullying her, there was no other way of describing his pattern of behaviour. Of course, she never remained the victim for long.

To the external observer, Riddle's attitude towards her was, as usual, exemplary; he maintained their "friendly" image outside of class. He was being almost _gentlemanly_ in fact, if Amalia hadn't known that the description was completely laughable. He showed his true self to her in other, nastier ways, when he was sure others weren't looking.

It started with a rough push in a crowded hallway, a stuck out foot to trip her up, an icy stare between her shoulder blades. She ignored him; such pettiness was beneath her.

When this failed to illicit a reaction, other things started happening, things she could never prove was him. The seam of her bag would come mysteriously undone, or her laces would be tied together just as she was about to step down the top of a staircase. On Tuesday, in Defence Against the Dark Arts, she somehow got a small burn on her leg, like a cigarette burn, that made her jump and yelp just as Professor Fairchilde was in full stream about the importance of proper classroom conduct. It earned her a glare and ten points from Slytherin, and she only had to glance at Riddle to note his satisfied smirk. This was _amusing_ him.

With him starting to target her with magic, she could no longer ignore it. After the seam of her bag split for the third time in two hours, she made an excuse to her friends and ran off to the library, where she researched and cast a variety of spells to protect her belongings and clothes from external manipulation. Although a simple "impervious" would have sufficed, she didn't trust that he'd give up that easily, so she layered the spells into an intricate protective web. An unforeseen side-effect was that her ink became reluctant to sink into parchment, and she soon got distracted looking up charms and countercharms for hours. By supper that night she was a veritable encyclopedia of protective charms, and had great fun taking revenge in the Great Hall by making Riddle's utensils impervious to food. Unfortunately he caught on half-way through and managed to undo most of them, but she was mollified by his distinctinctly disgruntled expression when dessert replaced his full bowl of stew.

After that their silent war continued, each attempting to out-do the other without attracting attention. She came to dread Defence Against the Dark Arts, since he seemed hell-bent on getting her into detention by making her unintentionally disruptive. Dropped quills, slamming books and scraping chairs was the least of her worries, and she developed an irritated eye-twitch mirrored almost perfectly by Professor Fairchilde.

In Transfiguration the opposite was true; Amalia outshone all the other students in terms of knowledge and ability, and Riddle wasn't foolish enough to mess around with her under Dumbledore's sharp gaze. Able to relax and actually enjoy learning without looking over her shoulder meant that it was soon her favourite class. And Dumbledore took note of her ability and often recommended books for extra reading or higher-level variations of the spells they learnt. The only thing wrong about the situation was the niggling feeling of unfairness in Dumbledore's favouritism; Riddle, even if he didn't always show it, was just as capable as she was, if not more so, and yet he was always pointedly ignored.

In their other classes, Riddle and Amalia were often openly competitive, and it became a habit of Professor Merrythought to get them to demonstrate new spells and charms. They made each class more intense by attempting even new spells non-verbally, which Callidora informed her made them both look constipated.

Herbology was one class that Amalia was quite happy with flunking, though Professor Beery mostly pretended not to notice her low-key rebellion. She'd promised to show up for auditions for his play and he kept whipping out the script in class and getting her and the other students to act out scenes, sometimes using the greenhouse plants as props. Amalia found that acting was harder than she'd expected; especially when Riddle was enchanting Slimerot Moss to climb into her socks while she was supposed to recite a dramatic declaration of love.

In Ancient Runes she proved more knowledgeable than Riddle, to his displeasure. But at least it was difficult enough to give Amalia a break from his attention.

History was the class that most students slept through, and Professor Binns droned on without ever glancing up. This automatically became the most dangerous battleground of all. As a result, they both became the epitome of studiousness, taking notes very seriously while the rest of the class tried to stop nodding off, and keeping an eye on each other as well. They were very aware that the first one to lose focus would be on the receiving end of something nasty.

Potions was the only class where things were different. Whatever petty pranks they were pulling (or, in Amalia's case, attempting to avoid), it was left at the door. Inside the Potions classroom, Riddle was trying to keep up his current "outstanding" Potions grade, while Amalia tried to catch up on five years' worth of potion-making theory from working alongside him. She had plenty of opportunities to make things purposefully hard for Riddle, but for some reason she held herself back.

Although Amalia remained utterly clueless and generally a hindrance in Potions, Riddle found he still considered it his favourite class. If anything, he looked forward to it even more than before, wondering in what absurd way Amalia would unintentionally mess up next.

She had this habit of looking at him with big eyes, comically bewildered, and saying in an amusingly panicked tone, "Riddle? What's happening now? What did I do wrong?" And he'd give a long-suffering sigh - disguising his amusement with irritation - before swooping in to save the day with some clever alchemy.

Once Potions was over, of course he'd return back to plotting his next move against her, but in class, they abided by the unspoken truce.

Their antics didn't go unnoticed by the general population. Riddle had always been a source of fascination at Hogwarts; the girls were all in love with him and the other boys admired and envied him, so his new obsession with his classmate caused quite a stir. As for Amalia, some over-inflated rumours perpetuated by Olive Hornby and company were more than enough to convince half the school they were secretly dating, and their competitiveness and the oddly intense "friendliness" Riddle treated her with in public was some kind of elaborate foreplay.

Callidora remained convinced something romantic was going on, although Amalia's friends now saw the ugly side of Riddle he tried to hide. She still insisted it was because he liked her, and the newest theory was because he "didn't know how to show human feelings".

Amalia disagreed. She thought it was much simpler than that; he wanted to prove himself better than her, stronger... He wanted to _break_ her. And she suspected he wouldn't be satisfied until he knew every scrap of her history, and she was kneeling before him in tears. Just like his first attack had tried to accomplish.

She had to remind herself that as fun as their little game was, it could turn cruel and deadly in an instant. The moment she let down her guard, it would be over.

* * *

On Friday they had Transfiguration before dinner, and Amalia enjoyed the (albeit brief) respite from Riddle's attention. So much so that she was whistling a cheerful tune at the end of class as she packed her bag.

"Amalia and Tom," came Dumbledore's quiet voice over the class's rummaging, "Would you stay behind for a moment?"

Amalia paused briefly before she slung her bag over her shoulder, her cheerful smile not faltering even as her mind raced through potential scenarios.

Sneaking a peek at Riddle, she noticed he'd frozen up completely, his expression mask-like.

She walked up to the front of the class and dawdled there, perched on the edge of a desk - Riddle seemed to take forever, packing his books away with more aggression than his stationery surely warranted. She watched him curiously - something about Dumbledore unnerved him, and it showed. Coming from such a perfect actor, the cracks in his mask were a rare sight.

Even if the bespectacled older wizard noticed his childish attitude, he didn't say anything, but simply waited patiently until both of them were before him in the empty classroom. Riddle stood stiffly beside her, like a soldier standing at attention, though he kept his gaze firmly fixed on a spot on the wall somewhere to the left of Dumbledore's shoulder. If he was trying to look bored and nonchalant, he was failing dismally.

"What did you want to speak to us about, Professor?" Amalia asked innocently, sensing that she'd better take the lead.

Funnily enough, Dumbledore ignored her in favour of gazing at Riddle with quiet intensity over his half-moon spectacles, his fingers steepled under his chin.

Riddle remained unable to meet his eyes, and shifted uncomfortably as the seconds trickled by.

Amalia felt a spike of annoyance. "Professor?" she prompted.

Dumbledore dragged his attention back to her. "... I'm sure you've heard," he started casually, glancing between them, "There seems to have been some sort of _disturbance_ in the school grounds last Friday, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest."

 _Shit shit shit!_ Amalia kept her expression neutral, but she could hardly disavow _all_ knowledge of it - the whole school had been talking about the craters and burnt grass that had appeared overnight. But perhaps it was best to plead ignorance for now. "A disturbance, sir?" she asked calmly.

Dumbledore's eyes slid back to Riddle and narrowed slightly. "Indeed. It seems some students were out of bounds and practicing magic - dangerous magic, if fact - the Headmaster has asked me to look into it. Would you two... happen to know anything about this incident?"

Amalia bit the inside of her lip. He must have picked up on the residual magic left behind by her use of the Level 6 Dark spell. It was a powerful working, and Dark magic in particular left traces. It was a curse that wouldn't even be _mentioned_ anywhere in Hogwarts, even in the Restricted Section. But then why was he still looking at Riddle?

Riddle found his voice for the first time since the start of Transfiguration class. "Of course not, Professor." his tone was calm and smooth, but then he ruined the effect by shooting a suspicious glance at Amalia. If she'd ever wanted him to get expelled, all she'd need to do was speak now...

"I'm afraid I can't help you either, Professor." Amalia said blithely.

Dumbledore seemed somewhat disappointed by her denial, judging by the small crease which appeared on his forehead. "I see." he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Then, would you mind telling me where you both were on that night? I saw that you, Miss Gray, missed dinner."

"I went back to the Common Room with Charlotte," Amalia said truthfully. _Little bitch then cursed me._ "She'd forgotten to hand in an essay."

He seemed momentarily stumped by this very normal excuse.

"And you, Tom, what were you up to after dinner?"

He suddenly seemed to have lost the ability to speak - but Amalia could hardly blame him. Dumbledore had fixed him with a stare so piercing, it could strip paint. And there was a coldness to it, that Amalia had never seen in the old man's (usually) kind demeanor. And she was equally unprepared for the rush of protectiveness she suddenly felt for her arch-foe.

"He was with me." she said abruptly, causing both of them to turn and look at her.

"Oh?" prompted Dumbledore, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes." she said stubbornly, "We met after dinner to... study together." She saw duelling as practice, anyway, so it wasn't such a stretch from the truth, (in her opinion).

"In the library," added Riddle, after a short silence.

Dumbledore wasn't convinced. "I'm not sure I believe you." he said drily.

"It's the truth," Amalia argued adamantly. She took advantage of the situation to casually link arms with Riddle, leaning her head on his shoulder with a relaxed smile. "We're _friends_ , after all."

She was certain she'd regret her impulsive arm-linking soon; Riddle hated being touched. He didn't shove her off or show any outward sign of his discomfort in front of Dumbledore, but he was so tense it was like linking arms with a Riddle-shaped plank.

He also seemed to have lost the ability to speak again, so she discreetly trod on his toes.

"Ah- Er - That's right, sir." he hastily confirmed, pasting a vague smile on his face, too. He shot her a look of pure malevolence that lasted microseconds - he was probably already plotting revenge for her audacity.

But at least the ploy seemed to convince Dumbledore that he wasn't going to get anywhere with the interrogation. He looked between them, seemingly bemused by this united front, and sighed heavily in defeat.

"You may go." he said with a thin smile.

Amalia immediately marched out, towing Riddle with her. For some reason she felt the need to put some distance between them and those piercing blue eyes.

* * *

Outside in the corridor, Riddle shook her off with irritation, glaring.

"Don't look at me like that!" she snapped, folding her arms. "What was I supposed to do?"

"The next time you touch me without permission, I _will_ curse you." he said coldly.

She glanced at him up-and-down, "Oh, so I can if I have permission, then?" She smirked. She couldn't deny the thought was appealing.

His lips curved up in answering smirk, but his eyes remained cold. "I assure you, _that_ will never happen."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Let's go - I'm starving."

The rest of the school was already in the Great Hall, leaving the halls deserted.

He walked in silence next to her down two flights of stairs. They had just entered the First Floor Corridor when he looked sidelong at her, thoughtful.

"What?" she prompted, the sly glance making her uneasy.

She suddenly noticed he was fingering his wand, though she hadn't noticed him take it out. "We're already late for dinner..."

She stiffened, but kept walking. "No. Absolutely not!"

His grin was vicious as he kept pace. "You said anytime-"

"We were _just_ interrogated, Riddle!" she exclaimed. "Do you want to get expelled?"

"Stop being so dramatic. We don't have to be loud. And we can clean up any mess easily enough."

"I don't know about you," she said tartly, "But I'm not good at holding back."

"Correction. You don't _want_ to hold back. Like that one move - where did you even _learn_ that?"

She assume he was talking about the Dark magic, doubtless the reason behind Dumbledore's failed intervention. She grinned. "I have my sources."

Riddle remembered the horrible feeling of the golden substance flowing like oil over his skin towards his mouth and repressed a shudder. "I'd never heard even a description of it before."

She laughed. "Oh, you tried to do some research? Well, it's definitely not something they teach students - or _decent_ people in general. It's a pity I stopped before the end - you didn't get to experience the full effect."

His eyes darkened at her mocking tone, turning to bottomless wells of icy obsidian.

"If we start now, I'll be finished with you before dessert arrives." he hissed.

"Wow, you're really that impatien-"

They rounded a corner and came face to face with a skinny-looking Ravenclaw second year, who squeaked and scrambled back from where she'd been pressed to the wall. She was blushing so hard Amalia half expected her enormous, round glasses to mist up.

Riddle and Amalia paused, exchanging a glance. Their voices must have echoed in the (supposedly) empty corridor.

"What are you doing here?" asked Amalia, frowning.

The girl squeaked again, and pointed down the corridor with a shaky hand.

Amalia realised they had just passed the girls' bathroom. "Oh, I see."

Riddle took a threatening step forward with a poisonous smile. "And what do you think you _heard,_ Ms Warren?"

"N-Nothing!" stuttered the girl instantly, but she blushed even harder. "I mean, it's really no concern of mine if you two want to - if you're going to -"

Amalia noted her whiny voice was singularly annoying.

"She didn't hear anything important, Riddle," Amalia sighed.

Riddle frowned at her. "But-"

"Think about it."

His expression cleared as he recalled they hadn't actually mentioned _duelling_ or _Dark curses_ directly. Instead, what they'd been talking about could be misconstrued as something else entirely... Which explained the girl's half-scandalised, half-excited blush.

Instantly his demeanor changed. "It's Myrtle, isn't it?" he said in a voice of honeyed sweetness.

She was instantly doe-eyed. "Y-yes?"

"It's against the rules to miss the start of the Feast." he indicated his Prefect badge, and she flinched. "So what are you really doing here?"

"Olive Hornby was being mean to me..." the girl whined, pouting.

Amalia felt a muscle twitch in her face. No wonder this girl got bullied. She hadn't been in her presence for even a minute and she felt like bullying her.

But Riddle's tone remained polite. "I'll overlook it this time, Myrtle," he purred generously.

"Gee, thanks, Riddle!" she gave an annoying, high-pitched giggle, batting her eyelashes.

A hint of sternness entered his voice, "But I expect to see you back in the hall before the end of dinner. It's not a good idea to wander the corridors alone after dark. Even the girl's bathrooms. People might think you're... up to something."

"Of course! Um... I'll just be going now."

They watched her scurry off.

"Whoa," said Amalia suddenly, "I just got the weirdest sense of de ja vu."

"Fascinating." commented Riddle drily. He sighed. "Fine, no duelling tonight."

They continued walking down the steps to the Great Hall. The double doors were half ajar, and laughter, talking and the clink of utensils could be heard, along with an assault of delicious smells.

"To be honest," Amalia said with a grin in a low voice just before they entered, "I want a re-match too."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Then, why-?"

She patted him on the shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened and glared.

"Well, next time... just don't ask me to miss dinner for the 'honour' of beating you. Again."

He briefly fantasised about all the ways he could dismember her without leaving traces.

"Noted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read too much into the de ja vu thing. Just accept that Hogwarts, well... it's a magical place. I wrote it in to be funny, not as a plot device.
> 
> Also, re-read the section as Amalia and Tom talk about duelling, with the hindsight that Myrtle assumes they're talking about freaky sex. For the lols, hehe!


End file.
